


Self-Control

by taispeantas_laethuil



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory Swap, Community: dragonage_kink, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Re-Education, Seheron, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:04:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3806389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taispeantas_laethuil/pseuds/taispeantas_laethuil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dorian is the burned out war-veteran from Seheron, and the Iron Bull left the Qun because he wanted relationships that were considered taboo on Par Vollen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Another Lifetime](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760429) by [Dragomir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/pseuds/Dragomir). 



> Another take on [this](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14317.html?thread=53957357#t53957357) prompt! The very talented Dragomir is filling this prompt as well with the wonderful "Mirror, Mirror" series. I've linked to the first story in it.

"So... Tal-Vashoth?"  
  
Adaar sounded so desperately curious when he asked that the Bull couldn't really deny the man his answers. "Yeah. It means 'true grey ones', to differentiate from Vashoth, 'grey ones' like you: Qunari who were born and raised outside the Qun, rather than having left it."  
  
"Why did you leave it?"  
  
He still sounded desperately curious, but the Bull... he could barely talk about this shit with Krem, let alone someone called the Herald of Andraste.  
  
"Why did your parents leave?" He asked instead.  
  
"I don't know," he said. "They never talked about it."  
  
"Yeah. Going Tal-Vashoth is like that."  
  
Even though Adaar let him leave it like that, the Bull was going to have nightmares about rooting around the garbage for food like a qalaba that night, he just knew it.  
  
*  
  
He was right. He dreamed about garbage, about standing on his toes for three days straight until his legs gave out and then hanging there until his shoulder gave way too, about people he would have considered his buddies last week watching him piss himself and accusing him of becoming an animal because he'd dared to defend his _kadan_ against the Ben-Hassrath agents trying to arrest her. Because he’d lashed out when they killed her.  
  
And because the Qun demanded it of them, of course. They did their duty because their convictions were strong, and they didn't suffer the weakness and selfishness that would make them place the needs of their friends above the needs of the whole.  
  
Then he woke up, and stared at the ceiling until the sun was high enough to start peaking through the windows.  
  
*

By the time the sky had opened up and started raining demons, he was ten years away from Par Vollen. Ten years was a lot of time to change your opinions about things. So when they headed to Redcliffe, he felt about mages pretty much the same way he felt about Qunari living outside the Qun. People often said that they would become corrupt and dangerous, and it wasn't like they were wrong, per say: but those platitudes were pretty useless when it came to dealing with individuals.  
  
The Tevinter Imperium was not an individual, and a group of mages becoming indentured to it was bad news. Even he knew that: he'd turned Tal-Vashoth, not stupid.  
  
But Adaar was, in addition to being Vashoth and a mage, the boss, so he just sighed and followed him into the Chantry.

*

Their first meeting could have gone better.  
  
Not for the 'vint, no: there really weren't a whole lot of better ways to introduce yourself to the Inquisition than casually beating demons to death in a Chantry. But the Bull was having an off day, he could admit that.  
  
It was just- everything about the man screamed Magister, and everything about the set-up screamed false-flag, so when Adaar had sealed the Rift he immediately jumped in with "Great. Another 'vint."  
  
The 'vint in question looked him up and down, and it was on the tip of his tongue to make a crack about enjoying the view when the man said "And what are you, then? Tallis? Salit? Gatt?"  
  
"Tal-Vashoth," the Bull snapped, and yeah, it still stung, the way the ‘vint stiffened and peered down his nose at him like he’d said he was rabid dog. Still, he pushed it back and added more calmly. "But most people call me the Iron Bull."  
  
"Well pardon me," he replied with a sardonic little smile that caused the Bull to notice- too late- the scars around his lips, where his mouth had been stitched shut, and then the stitches ripped out. He was still going through everything he'd ever heard about saarebas escaping to the Imperium when he added "I'm Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous."  
  
_Aw, fucknuggets_ he thought, because even though his superiors never let him out as far as Seheron (like they could tell he felt like the Qun had failed him in some places, like they could tell he would one day fail the Qun) he'd heard of this guy.  
  
"You're shitting me," he said flatly, and felt a tiny flash of victory when he saw Pavus wince at that. He'd probably been hoping that no one would recognize the name at first- and to control where they got their intel on him from.  
  
He should have used a false name, then. He wasn't sure what he was expecting the biggest pain in the Qunari's backside the Imperium had produced in the last age to look like, but it certainly wasn't a man maybe a few years younger than him who was downright _pretty_. He might have been able to slip under their notice, at least for a time.  
  
"Recently arrived from Seheron, I take it?" Pavus asked.  
  
"Nah, I slipped out of Par Vollen about a decade or so back."  
  
"I'm surprised you've heard of me, then."  
  
"Are you kidding? _Everyone_ got orders to capture you for interrogation after the Siege of Baq-Chisaari."  
  
"Really? And here I thought it just _felt_ like everyone was out to get me."  
  
"Uh," Adaar interrupted. "Can we backtrack to the part where I don't know who this guy is?"  
  
"He's the Imperial Legatus in charge of retaking Seheron for the 'vints," the Bull explained.  
  
"Formerly," Pavus correctly swiftly. "I am officially terrible at politics."  
  
"And unofficially?" Adaar asked.  
  
"I am fed up with the Magisterium's bullshit, I feel like the Venatori are a threat which I'd like to remove, and I'm an old friend of Felix's," Pavus explained, adding after a beat. "And also, I really am terrible at politics. I don't have the patience for it."  
  
Adaar believed him- or at least trusted that he was sincere in his desire to get rid of the Venatori. The Bull decided to keep an eye on the guy, just in case.  
  
At least the view was nice.

* * *

 

"So, you're a lot younger than I was expecting you to be."  
  
"Did you also expect me to be ten feet tall, breathing fire, and cackling madly, a sacrificial slave on each arm?"  
  
"Nah, I was expecting there to be grey hair involved. And some gristle. Maybe an eyepatch."  
  
"I almost needed one, but thankfully I had the services of a competent healer at my disposal."  
  
"It'd be a good look for you."  
  
"I'm sure I'd look quite dashing, but I enjoy looking with depth perception too."  
  
"That hurts, Pavus."  
  
*  
  
"Really though, you must have been what, twenty? Twenty-five?"  
  
"I have indeed passed through both those ages, as has most of our group."  
  
"Did you, what, decided to take a year off from your studies and go fight Qunari on Seheron?"  
  
"I'll have you know that taking a holiday on Seheron to slaughter the ox-men has been in vogue for years."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Yes. Magisters from far and wide load their yachts with lyirum, wine, a few body slaves and their personal guards and go shoot fireballs from within the protection of scholae. It's great fun, the envy of all who stay behind on the mainland, who have to content themselves with watching the fighting through telescopes across the Ventosus Straits when the weather is clear."  
  
"You're shitting me, right?"  
  
"Unfortunately, no."  
  
"That's really fucked up."  
  
"And if you try telling the Magisterium that, they'll make you fight through half a dozen duels before shipping you back with an empty threat about funds."  
  
*

"Why the Seige of Baq-Chisaari?"  
  
"I don't know why you're asking me that. Didn't you start that fight?"  
  
"No, but I lost it. Badly. Everyone lost that fight, especially Baq-Chisaari. Between the Qunari having some kind of gaatlok mishap and the Praetorix turning herself into a pride abomination and wrecking merry havoc on everyone until we finally managed to put her down, the place is a smouldering crater populated by the odd lingering demon. That was not my proudest moment. If I were going to end up the target of anyone's assassins for it, I would have thought my own people would have sent them, for bungling up the job."  
  
"Well, as I understand it, Baq-Chisaari was a safe zone. There wasn't supposed to be any fighting at all, let alone a protracted siege that leveled the place."  
  
"Ah, I see. Whoops?"  
  
*  
  
"So you're telling me that was an accident?"  
  
"Can you be more specific, perhaps?"  
  
"Baq-Chisaari. You didn't set out to ruin the place so the Qunari couldn't have it?"  
  
"Bull, nothing on Seheron goes like it's supposed to. Being on Seheron is like being in a sack of cats: there's a lot of yowling, scratching, and fleas, it smells, it's hard to breathe, some of the cats are rabid, and you never quite know what's going on, save that you're in a sack of cats."  
  
"Are the cats in this metaphor Qunari, Tal-Vashoth, or Fog Warriors? Or your own people?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
*  
  
"What made you decide to stay?"  
  
"Besides the fact that the world's still ending and you can't stretch without hitting a group of Venatori? The pleasure of your company, Bull."  
  
"I, uh- I actually meant on Seheron."  
  
"As you may have noticed from the lack of cats, I'm no longer on Seheron."  
  
"Yeah, but you stayed, for a lot longer than a little 'holiday'."  
  
"I was needed. Besides, fighting for the glory of the Tevinter Imperium made a great excuse to dodge family gatherings."

* * *

 

Dorian slept lightly and sparingly: most nights he didn't even bother trying. With the Inquisition's soldiers around to stand watch at night, most of the Inquisitor's group tended to try to rest at night, but not Dorian. He would be up when they all turned in, and he would be up when they awoke, scribbling away with a pot of tea for company.  
  
What he was writing the Bull couldn't really say. Letters home? Spy reports? Spy reports disguised as letters home? He tipped Red off about them, but that was the end of his involvement. He wasn't entirely sure that Dorian wouldn’t explode him if he caught the Bull snooping.  
  
When Dorian did sleep, he was particular about it. His boots went at the foot of his bedroll, the laces loosened just enough for him to slip into them. His staff went next to his bedroll, on top of his cloak, which had more hidden pockets than you could shake a stick at, each full of various potions and tonics, and even a couple of grenades and smoke screens. He then flopped belly down on the bedroll, one arm tucked under his pillow to grasp the dagger he kept there. He fell asleep quickly after that. You could tell by the way a simulacrum of himself conjured into being and started to patrol the perimeter of the camp, much to the mingled disgust and gratitude of the Inquisition's soldiers. Which sentiment dominated depended on how big a presence the Inquisition had the area, and whether or not the soldiers included those who were there that time in the Hinterlands when Dorian earned the right to brag that he'd killed a half dozen bears in his sleep.  
  
It was a pretty slick system, actually. With everything arranged like that, Dorian could go to from asleep to battle-ready in eight seconds. The Bull knew: he'd timed it, because even when Dorian tried to sleep, it didn't last very long. The guy would get three, maybe four hours of rest before jerking upright- boots, staff, cloak, and bam! out of the tent he went, with a vague huff of annoyance when he realized where he was that did nothing to break his stride.  
  
The Bull knew all this because not only did he normally share a tent with Dorian, but he shared a nightmare problem. He'd had a nightmare problem since he'd managed to leave the Qun, but it was worse now than it had been in years. He wasn't sure what set it off: Adaar and the way he would talk of growing up in his little Vashoth community surrounded by family? Being so often away from _his_ family, his Chargers? Just general stress of the fucking end of the world? Some weird metaphysical reason having to do with the rifts and the demons?  
  
He knew that the whole Breach in the Veil situation had something to do with dreaming, and magic. Not that Qunari were supposed to dream like other races did, or so he'd been taught: they weren't even allowed to enter the Fade. But he'd been taught that Qunari weren't supposed to do a lot of things.  
  
So he tended to already be awake- lying still and silent, looking as relaxed as possible with his heart trying to beat itself out of his chest- when Dorian jumped up. It was an old habit from when he was a child, and didn't want to bother- or show weakness in front of- the other members of his cadre. The act worked on them then, and it worked on Dorian now. If the mage noticed he was awake, he didn't mention it, at least.  
  
It was kind of comforting, in a way, to know that Dorian had nightmares. Krem was only on Seheron for a year or so, and he had nightmares: after he'd convinced the re-educators that he was repentant, he'd been assigned to a work gang with a guy who'd been on Seheron. It was why he’d been assigned there- the man was a wreck, self-aware enough to turn himself in to the Ben Hassrath before he shattered completely but without much else going for him. The guards always kept a close eye on him- he had fits, sometimes curling in on himself a crying, sometimes lashing out, sometimes just going completely and utterly blank. _A broken thing_ , he'd heard the guards say, _like a saarebas, but the demons are only in his head._  
  
He'd kept the Bull up every night that first week with his screaming. Then he'd learned to tune him out. He could get used to pretty much anything, given enough time: he could deal, if not be exactly the same afterwards. Dorian seemed much the same way, judging by how unobtrusive his nighttime routine was, and how functional he was during the daytime.

It was one thing when he was getting three hours a sleep a night: he was sleeping pretty much every night, and 'able to function on three hours of sleep' was one of those things Qunari were supposed to do that held true for him. Dorian was _not_ sleeping every night, and he was human.  
  
He had to wonder if that was why the guy out his eyeliner on so thick- to disguise the bags. Dorian claimed that it was to absorb light and cut down on glare, but that was such an obvious lie that even Solas had had trouble not pissing himself laughing.  
  
And it wasn't like he was making up for it when they were in Haven either. Dorian slept more often, sure, but generally it was in the tavern, with one hand curled around an empty bottle. It was kind of funny the first time he saw that. The twenty-second time, it was pretty alarming.  
  
So he did something about it. Got Stitches to whip up one of his remedies, and dictate the list of ingredients (the Bull didn't trust Stitches’ handwriting, and he knew Dorian would never trust the remedy if he didn't know what was in it) and stuck it in his pack while the Inquisitor was still trying to answer his questions about how fallow this mire was, exactly.  
  
The Bull wasn't going on that trip. So, if Dorian reacted poorly, he could take it out on the corpses, and it'd be no shine off his horns.  
  
Dorian made a beeline for Krem when he returned. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. It might just be a matter of checking that the remedy was a genuine Stitch article, or it might have something to do with the fact that he was pretty sure they knew each other.  
  
Not that either one of them had said anything about it, exactly, but he'd done the math: when his lieutenant had been a little baby Krem-puff serving out his first combat-duty term on Seheron, the Siege of Baq-Chisaari was in full swing. Every so often Dorian would pass Krem, and his hand would twitch, like it wanted to salute. Also, shortly after Dorian arrived he'd found Krem laughing like a loon over a fuckton of socks that someone had left in his room. It reminded him of a story Krem had told him once, about when someone had found out about his anatomical differences and brought them before the commander. The commander had be very annoyed by the interruption, and at some point between 'are you trying to tell me that our doctors are incompetent?' and 'are you trying to tell me that I can't tell a man from a woman?' the other guy realized that he was in over head. He got sent off with latrine duty for a month, and the moment he was out of earshot the commander turned to Krem and said "You might want to invest in a soft pair of socks, and perhaps some kind of tragic story about a war wound just in case anyone notices you tucking more than yourself into your smalls."  
  
So, he wasn't really sure the two of them talking about him was a good thing, especially when he was pretty sure they were talking about him. He was also pretty sure that interrupting would be bad, so he just stood and there and watch the soldiers train, mentally slotting in his Chargers in to cover this weak spot or that exposed flank. He’d get Krem to fill him in later.  
  
The next he saw of Dorian, the man was passed out in Krem's bed, for once not smelling like a brewery. He'd arranged his things differently, to account for the bed: boots on the floor pointing towards the door, cloak hanging off the bedpost at the head of the bed, his staff leaning against it. He was lying on his back- it was probably the first time the Bull had ever seen him sleeping with his face exposed. He was snoring slightly, his mustache fluffed up: as the Bull watched he grimaced, hands twitching, and then his features smoothed out again.  
  
"I'm stealing your bed, Chief," Krem said as he passed.  
  
"Yeah, yeah," the Bull replied. Dorian snorted, his face contorting again: the Bull closed the door until it was only open a crack. Stitches would let him borrow one of his cots, he was sure.

*

Dorian sought him out the next day where he was watching Cullen put the soldiers through their paces.  
  
"That's a Qunari technique," he said as a greeting. "Angling their shields slightly down, to redirect fire or acid. Your suggestion?"  
  
"Nope," the Bull said. "Cullen's a former Templar: fighting mages has to breed similar tactics across cultures."  
  
Dorian nodded thoughtfully.  
  
"Also, I never fought on Seheron, and there's not much use for mage-fighting techniques on Par Vollen. That wasn't part of my training."  
  
"Thank the Maker for small mercies, I suppose," Dorian murmured, before added at a more normal volume "And thank you, as it happens. It's been far too long since I had a good night's rest. I should be better fortified, now."  
  
In the time it took the Bull to parse that sentence, Dorian had nodded sharply and turned to leave. "Oh, there were no complaints about your fortifications," the Bull said, stopping Dorian in his tracks. "I just noticed you weren't sleeping."  
  
The look on Dorian's face as he turned around was deeply mistrustful. The Bull waited: he'd been sincere, and hopefully Dorian would be able to read that on him.  
  
Dorian didn't nod this time so much as dip his head off to one side. "Well. What I said still stands."

* * *

 

"I have something I need to confess."  
  
Dorian was huffing as he said it. So was the Bull for that matter: Cassandra was merely wheezing, still just barely conscious from where she'd taken a hit from a boulder that had gone spinning out of the main flow of the avalanche, Dorian's barrier just barely enough to ensure that she was still breathing when they reached her.  
  
They were pretty much carrying her between the two of them now. She was aware enough to snarl when the Bull tried to pick her up, and she was still managing to put one foot in front of the other, sort of. That was probably good.  
  
"Save it," the Bull said. "There'll be priests at camp."  
  
He frowned down at Cassandra. He wondered if maybe he shouldn't try to loosen her armor a bit, so she could breathe easier- or if maybe that was keeping broken ribs in place.  
  
"Yes, there's nothing quite like a confessional where you know the clerics are already judging you before you even enter the booth," Dorian groused. "And this is something you should know."  
  
"Are you dying?" the Bull asked, the question becoming serious after the words had already left his mouth.  
  
"Only of the cold," Dorian assured him.  
  
"Then you can tell me later," the Bull said.  
  
Cassandra wobbled, and this time when the Bull scooped her up, she made no protest. He frowned, trying to adjust his grip so that she was relatively still, and he wasn't putting pressure on her ribcage. He hoped they weren't going to be attacked by any of the Red Templar stragglers.  
  
He hoped Cassandra made it. He hoped Adaar made it, somehow- they hadn't seen the Inquisitor since before he set off the avalanche. He hoped they _both_ made it. He'd watched them out of the training ground, Adaar blushing from his ears all the way to his nose and down his neck as he called her a force of nature, Cassandra prickling but slowly, surely, lowering her guard. He didn't want to be the one to tell either one of them that they were never going to get the chance to try and make things work between them.  
  
"It's about why I'm here," Dorian said, which was... something he'd stopped worrying about at some point. Huh.  
  
"I'm listening," he said.  
  
"Adaar already knows," Dorian assured him. "So does Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen."

The fact that he’d felt the need to inform the Inquisition’s leadership of whatever it was he was about to tell the Bull made him feel pretty nervous.  
  
"So you are down here officially after all, Legatus?" he asked.  
  
Dorian winced. "That's a bit of a stretch. And none of that Legatus business, if you don't mind?"  
  
"All right."

"I'm not here officially, but I have contacts, friends, allies- people in the Magisterium who feel as I do: that the Imperium has ignored its own problems for far too long, that it is one disaster away from a collapse, and that we will never be able to stop it if we don't confront it. Which no one of consequence wants to so long as there are other things to focus on."  
  
"Like the Venatori?" the Bull asked.  
  
"I wish the Venatori were the extent of our issues," he sighed. "But they're a symptom of a deeper problem. Cults are running rampant in the Imperium, and problem isn't religious so much as political. People don't join the Venatori to worship the Elder One, they join the Venatori to try and reclaim a Tevinter that used to rule over the whole of Thedas. They join the Siccari to live out a fantasy of doing despicable deeds for the greater good, rather than to worship a dragon. They join the Theotokoi as a way to justify a desire to practice to worst sorts of blood magic sacrifices, not because they actually think they can transform themselves into a vessel fit for Andraste to be born into. And all the time, the country crumbles under the weight of its own corruption, everyone perfectly willing to ignore the cracks as long as they can distracted by something going on somewhere else. It's so easy to ignore what's happening at home if you are focused elsewhere, after all."  
  
"So what's the plan?"  
  
"Currently, our primary goal is to stop the Venatori from destroying the world," Dorian said. "All else is secondary. It'll be impossible to save Tevinter from itself if it there is no Tevinter."  
  
"So what are the secondary goals?" the Bull asked.  
  
"Stop the Venatori from destroying the world in an as publicly humiliating manner as possible," Dorian said. "My friends in the Magisterium aren't particularly powerful, compared to the other Magisters. The same can not be said of the Venatori's backers: thus far they've manage to block all attempts at even trying to reign in their activities. But if I'm here, great bloody war hero as Minrathous likes to consider me, that lends an air of respectability to the push to outlaw the Venatori. It's to our mutual benefit: weakening the Venatori's influence on politics in the Imperium strengthens the position of my friends, and gives the Inquisition less to worry about down here."  
  
"What did the Imperium think we were doing before you showed up here?" the Bull asked.  
  
"Recovering," Dorian said. "Either from injuries, or from a political misstep, depending on how knowledgeable a person you ask. I'm currently on a year's leave. I might be able to extend that- or I might not have to. It'll depend."  
  
"But you do plan on returning?" He wasn't sure why that was a surprise. "Go back to Tevinter- to Seheron?"  
  
"I plan on winning," Dorian told him. "We'll see how things are when the Venatori are all dead."

"So why did you need to tell me this now?" he asked.  
  
"Because the attack on Haven is going to change things. No matter where we end up, and what we end up doing, there's going to be more scrutiny on the Inquisition now, which in turn will place more scrutiny on me- and the fact that I'm working closely with two Qunari will be of particular interest to anyone familiar with my place in the Tevinter political scene."  
  
"Neither one of us follows the Qun," the Bull pointed out.  
  
"And most people are going to look at the horns and shout 'ox' without the slightest thought as to your religious sensibilities," Dorian said.  
  
The Bull grunted: yeah, that was certainly true.  
  
"I've made my name fighting Qunari," Dorian continued. "Anyone seeking to dislodge me from the Inquisition is likely to play on that, and you're more likely to become the subject their machinations than Adaar is."  
  
"Guess being the Herald of Andraste had to spare the guy from something."  
  
"And your second-in-command is a deserter from the Imperium's Army."  
  
That stopped the Bull short. "Is that how you think of Krem?"  
  
"No. Not really. But that's what people will say," Dorian said. The Bull must have looked pretty worried at that, because he quickly added. "The Imperium's far away. It's possible that it'll never come up. But just in case... you might want to be prepared."

 _No shit_ , the Bull thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Krem took the news that he- his character, his service record, and very likely his genitals- might suddenly become the focus of Tevinter politics with a great deal more equanimity than the Bull was feeling.  
  
“Politics just sort of follows Pavus around. He was always the poster child for the war on Seheron- the propagandists loved him, and he was always being recalled to Minrathous to speak before the Senate. Not that he was always going to Minrathous, mind- kind of hard to leave a city under siege, even if he wanted to go.”

It was the first time they'd openly acknowledged the fact that he and Dorian had known each other before either one of them met the Bull, and he was kind of touched by how matter of fact Krem was being about it- like the question hadn't been whether to let the Bull know for sure, but when to confirm his suspicions. He was also really curious.  
  
“What was he like, when you knew him?” the Bull asked.  
  
“Well, he wasn’t the Legatus when I arrived. He was pretty green- most of us were. He knew he was green, though. He wanted to prove himself, you could tell, but he was willing to learn too. He was always hanging around the centurions whenever things were quiet enough for it, asking for their advice and opinions. We in the legion appreciated that: a lot of the time guys like him come in, get an officer’s commission because they’re Altus, and then get a lot of us killed. Assuming they bothered with a commission in the first place.”  
  
“Yeah, he mentioned something about Seheron being a popular holiday spot.”  
  
Krem snorted. “That’s one way of putting it. We used to call the people who did that ‘glory holes’. Because they only came over for the glory of it, and they’d always leave a hole in our defenses.”  
  
The Bull filed that information away for later. He had no idea how he was going to work that into a conversation yet, but he was sure he could find a way somehow.  
  
“Pavus never had any patience for it- and because he was an Altus, he could call them an idiot to their faces. It always made for an afternoon’s entertainment- good for morale. I think that’s why the Praetorix let him do his ‘you think _you’re_ the cock of the walk?’ bit out in public.”  
  
“Is this the same Praetorix that turned herself into a pride abomination?” the Bull asked.  
  
“He told you about that?” Krem asked, looking shocked.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Huh. I wouldn’t have thought he’d mentioned that.”  
  
The Bull waited. Eventually Krem sighed and gave in.  
  
“They were… close.”  
  
Well. That was surprising. He’d seen Dorian looking, after all, and he wasn’t looking at the ladies.  
  
“Close how?” he asked.  
  
“She was a sort of mentor for him- a mother figure, even.”  
  
_Tamassran_ , the Bull thought with a pang.  
  
“He’d have done anything for her, I think,” Krem continued. “She was… proud of him. I’m not sure if she really did any emotions softer than pride- she’d been on Seheron for nearly twenty years. Being on Seheron tends to harden people.”  
  
“So no one noticed she what she’d become until it was too late,” the Bull finished for him.  
  
“Least of all Pavus,” Krem told him. “First and only time I ever saw him hesitate to go for the kill- when the line of fire was clear, at least.”

* * *

Things did change at Skyhold, but very little of it seemed to involve Tevinter politics. People were more concerned with things like the missing Grey Wardens, the upcoming ball at the Winter Palace, the Civil War on the Exalted Plains, Red Templars all over the Dales in general, and those weird-ass crystal shard things that you could apparently only see by looking through the skull of a Tranquil.  
  
Because the darkspawn magister and his pet archdemon, supported by an army of living crystal gardens, just wasn’t creepy enough. Someone had to kill people and then enchant their skulls to make the world’s most fucked up telescope. Fucking Venatori shits.  
  
Adaar was made Inquisitor, and they started fixing up the ruins of Skyhold. Varric brought Hawke in from wherever the fuck she’d been hiding, and Cassandra was later found to be apologizing to him for throwing a table at him.  
  
Dorian marked a space out for himself in the library, where he spent a lot of his nighttime hours: the Bull could see the candlelight in his window from the tavern. Daylight was spent working with the rebel mages, turning them into a fighting force. He clashed with Vivienne over tactics- she was also an experienced battle mage, but magic was used more often for support or large-scale attacks in Orlais, while Dorian was used to close-quarter combat in small units against unknown enemy numbers. And, also, being in charge- being in _command_. The way the ex-Legatus and Madame de Fer clashed over that was hotter than anything had a right to be, especially considering between Grand Enchanter Fiona and Inquisitor Adaar, neither one of them was going to do more than place third on the list of high-ranking mages.  
  
He had his Chargers, though Krem was running them more often than not these days. Adaar wanted the Bull out with him most of the time, and his boys would get a little stir crazy if they just sat around on their asses all day with nothing to do but train. He was more than a little concerned that one of the first missions they ran for the Inquisition without him involved hunting down a really powerful demon that could not just possess someone, but replace them, with no need for their actual bodies. He was also less than thrilled to learn that it had worn his face for a time to get at Krem, though he could appreciate the flair that lent to the story, especially seeing as it was told with everyone already back at Skyhold, safe and sound.  
  
For the Bull himself, the changes were mostly a matter of scenery. More and more people came from all over to join the Inquisition, the Herald’s Rest was a nicer tavern than the one in Haven (even if Cabot wasn’t quite as nice a bartender as Flissa), and the gear got better as more donations came in.  
  
Out in the field, there were dragons (his very favorite), Venatori (Dorian’s very favorite), and bears (no one’s favorite). There was very little mention of Tevinter politics beyond the crap that had already been shipped down here: he had some vague awareness of agents being sent up north, and of course there was that whole thing with the goat king, but no one popped out of the woodwork and started making snide remarks about Krem, so he was pretty okay with that being that.  
  
And, of course, there was Cole.

* * *

Cole was a creepy kid who was actually a mind-reading demon, and also a spirit who wanted to help people. None of those things would have put him on the Bull’s list of people he wanted watching his back, but the Bull wasn’t making the list, Adaar was. So he went traipsing around most of Fereldan and Orlais with the spirit-demon-kid dipping into his and everyone else’s mind in an effort to help them.  
  
He really did want to help them. That made it hard to stay mad at him. On the other hand, he really could do without having his memories paraded out in front of everyone, especially when they involved people who were known by the Inquisition. He doubted Krem appreciated have the details of the way they met spread around, especially when it involved that split second where he’d looked at his future lieutenant and thought ‘That’s a woman’.  
  
Of course, sometimes that beat the alternative.  
  
“Her hands, strong but gentle, rub the stubs where the horns will be. ‘You are strong, and your mind is sharp. You will solve problems others cannot.’ She smiles, but sadly. She’d have said yes if you asked.”  
  
“Are you talking about my tama?” the Bull demanded.  
  
“Agents with hushed tones. Eyes stinging. Forms to fill out, course corrections. Reduce risk of similar losses. And again, cold eyes and hard voices, with tales of an escaped prisoner,” Cole said, which he took as confirmation. “Words break in small, secret spaces. ‘He got away. He got away.’ She wanted you to be free. She wanted you to be happy.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t ask, then,” the Bull told him. “She’d have died with the rest of the group if she’d tried to leave.”  
  
“She wouldn’t have gone, but she would have told you to go,” Cole said.  
  
“Oh,” the Bull said. “Well. That’s something.”  
  
Dorian and Adaar were both staring at him, but neither one of them asked any questions.

He probably should have expected it, but when he went to sleep that night he didn’t think he’d be having worse nightmares than usual. 

And then he could see Miraal lying dead-eyed besides him, his kadan was gone and something in him had broken: and this was it, he’d strayed too far and now this was the moment he became a rabid monster, a Tal-Vashoth.  
  
Except that he hadn’t, had he? He hadn’t even _wanted_ to fight, he'd just let them arrest him and push him around and call him an animal: a selfish dathrasi, a dirty snake, a stupid qalaba, a stubborn bull. And he'd waited and waited for the madness to claim him like it was supposed to, and it hadn’t come even when he was denied sleep and food and cleanliness. He was treated like an animal, but he didn’t become one.  
  
It had all been a lie. Everything he’d believed about the necessary sacrifices made to uphold the Qun was a lie. He wasn’t an animal without it- _they_ were animals, the Ben-Hassrath re-educators who would have called him a friend a week- two weeks?- ago and were now talking about the new recipes being considered for communal dining and the forecast for the banana crop as they waited for his legs to give out after they’d strung him up with his hands behind his back yesterday.  
  
Lies. Liar. Hissrad, that’s what they’d made him. Being Hissrad would get him out of this again. They weren't wrong about that.  
  
“Katoh. Katoh, katoh, katoh, katoh, katoh-”  
  
“Bull?”  
  
“-katoh, katoh, katoh, katoh-”  
  
There was a smaller hand grasping his- human probably, the bones were too delicate for elven. None of his re-educators had been anything but qunari. Did he have a cell mate? Probably a plant- see if he opened up to a fellow prisoner, or so they could monitor him more closely, maybe both.  
  
“-katoh-”  
  
He couldn’t show any strength, any cunning- they had to think he was broken, that he wanted to return to the Qun.  
  
“-katoh-”  
  
“Bull, it’s Dorian, Dorian Pavus? You’re sa- not on Par Vollen. We’re in Fereldan working as part of the Inquisition.”  
  
“-katoh, katoh, katoh, katoh-”  
  
A second hand join the first in squeezing his fingers.  
  
“I hope you don’t make me regret this, you brute.”  
  
“-katoh, katoh, katoh-”  
  
The hands retreated and there was a sudden flood of light, a ball of fire floating in the air above him and the other man in the tent: a saarebas, a bas saarebas, a ‘vint, the Legatus, _Dorian_.  
  
“Fuck,” the Bull said, and fell silent.  
  
“You’re back?” Dorian asked. “You know where you are?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Good.” The light fizzled out of existence, plunging the tent into darkness once again.  
  
“Nice trick,” he said.  
  
“It works as a lantern and an intimidation tactic,” Dorian agreed.

For a moment neither one of them said anything: the Bull was waiting for Dorian to ask, and Dorian…  
  
“Well, I’m going to do some writing,” Dorian said. “You’re welcome to join me, if you don’t feel like falling back asleep.”  
  
Then he left- boots, staff, cloak, and out the front. After a moment, the Bull followed him.

* * *

Dorian shared his tea only a little begrudgingly, and continued to not ask, which was a good thing, because he had no idea how to talk to Dorian about that sort of shit. Cole didn’t bring up his tama or anything else from his life under the Qun again for a while, focusing on Dorian instead. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not: the guy had spent over a decade in a war zone, so his head was full of all kinds of disturbing.  
  
“Burned little bodies pressed against the shutters: three, six, nine, twelve, too many to count, so close to our cover, so close to where their saarebas fell. What happened? Who did it?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Dorian said, even though Cole had been using Dorian’s voice when he'd asked. “It could have been me, or one of my men. It could have been the Qunari. It could even have been the matron fulfilling some kind of mercy-killing pact. A lot of the Seheron natives viewed us as a rock and the Qunari as a hard place. People panic in that sort of situation- shit happens.”  
  
“You pick it up, like a sword by its sharp edge, feel the pain and then put it back away, still hurting, again and again,” Cole pressed on. “Why would you do that?”  
  
“Just checking,” Dorian replied curtly.  
  
The Bull was already awake when Dorian jerked upright that night. It took him six seconds to decide what to do, by which time Dorian had already jammed on his boots, grabbed his staff, and was in the process of pulling on his cloak.  
  
“Dorian,” the Bull said.  
  
Dorian spun around, letting his cloak slid to the floor as he pointed his staff blade at the Bull’s throat.  
  
Reminding the ‘vint that he was sharing a tent with a big bad qunari while the guy was still half in his nightmares of fighting Qunari in Seheron was not the smartest thing he had ever done, the Bull reflected as he raised his hands a little in surrender.  
  
“ _Teth a_ ,” Dorian hissed. “ _Ashkost kata? Ashkost say Legatus-asit._ ”  
  
The Bull blinked. His accent wasn’t half bad.  
  
“ _Shanedan_ ,” Dorian ordered, digging the point of his blade in just hard enough to remind him how close he was to have his throat slashed open.  
  
“Dorian,” the Bull said in Trade, as gently as he could. “Dorian, I’m the Iron Bull. You’re not on Seheron. We’re in Fereldan, working for the Inquisition, remember?”  
  
Dorian’s staff wavered slightly. “Bull?”  
  
“That’s right.”  
  
The staff blade disappeared from his throat, and Dorian sank back down on his bedroll, swearing a blue streak in Tevene.  
  
“Hey,” the Bull said, sitting up.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Dorian said miserably. “That was utterly inexcusable, and I’ll speak to the Inquisitor about requisitioning separate tents for everyone in the morning.”  
  
“Dorian, look, I’m fine, no harm done,” the Bull assured him. “I trust you.”  
  
“I just tried to kill you!”  
  
“No, you just asked me if I wanted to surrender,” the Bull pointed out.  
  
“With my blade pressed against your throat.”  
  
“You wouldn’t have done it.”  
  
“Yes, I would have,” Dorian insisted. “Killing has been the point of me for years.”  
  
The Bull regarded him for a moment. “And yet you offered the choice to surrender.”  
  
He’d meant that to point out the some part of Dorian had recognized that the Bull wasn’t a threat, that he wasn’t on Seheron, and that he wasn’t as out of control as he thought it was. Judge by the hollow, bitter laugh that replied with, that wasn’t how it was taken.  
  
“Dorian?” he asked.  
  
“Don’t do that,” Dorian ordered. “Don’t make me out to be something I’m not. I’m a very bad man, and you have no idea how easy it would be for me to hurt you.”  
  
The Bull was still trying to figure out how to reply when Dorian left the tent.

* * *

 

“Copper for your thoughts, Sparkler?”  
  
“Sparkler? Is that me?”  
  
“Yeah. I was going to go with Scarface but that seemed a little on the nose.”  
  
“Or the lips, as it were.”  
  
*  
  
“So how does someone become a Legatus anyway?”  
  
“You’re not eligible for the position, Blackwall, so I don’t see why you’d care.”  
  
“So is it a privilege of nobility, then? Or do you just kill all the other contenders with blood magic?”  
  
“How does someone become a Warden? Is being sentenced to hang a prerequisite, or just strongly encouraged?”  
  
“They are men and women, atoning for what they've done by giving of themselves. They fight for people like you. People who have their rank given to them on account of their ‘noble’ birth and spend their time giving orders from out of the line of fire.”  
  
“One of these days I’m really going to have to write up some sort of pamphlet about the many and varied ways I am not a magister.”  
  
“Your point?”  
  
“Magister is an inherited title. Once you have it, you can feel free to have as many people killed in as many ways as your peers deem socially acceptable- including by sending them to Seheron. Legatus is a military rank. You get it when everyone else dies and you don't. A lot.”  
  
*  
  
“You’re doing it again.”  
  
“Thinking too loudly? Sorry, I will try to stop that.”  
  
“You pick up the memory, feel the hurt, and then shove it away. You won’t let it heal.”  
  
“Cole? I have something very important to tell you.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“The day the idea that I might have caused an orphanage full of children to burn to death without realizing it doesn’t hurt is the day you use one of your daggers to stab me through the heart. Understand?”  
  
“Yes. I understand.”  
  
“Good man.”  
  
*  
  
“You never answered my question, Sparkler.”  
  
“Which question would that be?”  
  
“Copper for your thoughts?”  
  
“That’s not a question, that’s a woefully inadequate bid for my attention.”  
  
“It’s an expression.”  
  
“You know what I think? I think you’re a cheapskate.”  
  
*  
  
“So are there people like me in your fancy-pants evil mage army?”  
  
“People like you how: elves, women, mundanes, Sapphics?”  
  
“Soft- what’s that last one?”  
  
“Sapphics. Women who prefer the company of their fellow women.”  
  
“Like, ‘no boys allowed in this lavatory’, but the lavatory’s a person?”  
  
“Like sex. So in answer to your question, yes, I suppose.”  
  
“Oh. Is that a thing? Like, will people shit on you for it like they do the other things in Tevinter?”  
  
“Unfortunately, yes.”  
  
“Weird.”  
  
*  
  
“I received a letter the other day, Dorian.”  
  
“Truly? It’s nice to know you have friends.”  
  
“It concerned some distressing rumors that have been circulating around the Imperium of late- rumors about you.”  
  
“About me? Well, don’t keep me in suspense- is it the one about my secret desire to become the Arishok’s sex slave? That one was always my favorite. I keep hoping to hear a version which explains where I found the Tome of Koslun.”  
  
“The rumor is that you were deemed mentally unfit for your post, and subsequently ran out on your healers. People had thought you’d gone back to Seheron to seek an honorable death fighting the Qunari until you turned up here.”  
  
“Oh, that old chestnut? How disappointing.”  
  
*  
  
“I don’t buy it.”  
  
“Don’t buy what, those boots? I hate to break it to you, Blackwall, but they have already been paid for and we left that village with the cobbler a while ago now. You have, in fact, already bought it.”  
  
“I mean your story about becoming Legatus.”  
  
“I don’t believe I’ve actually told you that story.”  
  
“You said it was because everyone else died. Are you honestly trying to tell me that you didn’t kill any competition to get the position? Didn't make some kind of backroom deal to get them sent somewhere else? Isn't that how things are done in Tevinter?”  
  
“I’m not sure where you got the idea that Legatus was a title people were scrambling for, but it’s really not.”  
  
“And you’re not answering my question.”  
  
“I know! It’s almost like I don’t intend to!”

*

“ _She’s so proud of you, it shows in the smiles she gives you with every report you turn in. ‘I think we can push a little farther afield, Pavus. I’m sure you can handle it.’ Of course. Anything. Anything for her._ ”  
  
“It’s remarkably obvious what was going to happen in hindsight, isn’t it?”  
  
“No. Pride isn’t always a bad thing. It’s a kind of safety, not having to hide.”  
  
“Yes, it’s all fun and games until someone turns into an abomination. Then it’s all screaming and death.”  
  
“You weren’t wrong to love them.”  
  
*  
  
“Is Sap-fits just for girls or is it also for boys like you?”  
  
“I- Sapphic is for girls only.”  
  
“So what’s your word, then?”  
  
“Uh, me?”  
  
“Yeah, you, Leggy-tarts. Boys who like boys. _Like_ -like them.”  
  
“I, um. Well. Most of them are insults.”  
  
“What’s to insult about? Boys ain’t my cuppa, but that fancy wine slosh you like don’t agree with me either.”  
  
“Honestly? I have no idea. That’s just how it is, in Tevinter at least.”  
  
*  
  
“Alright, Sparkler: silver for your thoughts?”  
  
“You seem very interested in my opinions, Varric.”  
  
“So are you going to tell me any?”  
  
“No- I think you can afford to go a little higher.”  
  
*  
  
“I heard about what happened with your Seekers, Cassandra. I’m sorry for your loss.”  
  
“Thank you. But I can’t help but feel as though I should have noticed the something was wrong. I should have seen.”  
  
“As I said, I’m sorry for your loss- of both your people, and your faith in them.”  
  
*  
  
“So there were no more experienced officers that could be given-”  
  
“No. Everyone was dead, Blackwall.”  
  
“But there’s-”  
  
“What do you want from me, exactly? To hear that I was a twit with no idea what a war was when I joined up and thought it was all a brilliant way to avoid arguing with my father for a year? Or did you want the gristly details of how everyone died- who was killed by the Qunari, who was killed when the Qunari went mad, who was captured by the Qunari and had to be killed after they’d been broken down in obedient little saarebases, who went mad all on their own and turned into abominations? Or are you looking for how I spent my first few weeks as Legatus convinced that someone else must have made, I was just holding down the fort, only to have word come from the mainland that as far as Minrathous was concerned I was it, the island was mine, I should really do something about the way it was on fire. Is that what you want to hear?”  
  
“Actually, yes. That’s- very informative of you.”  
  
“Well. You’d be the first to say that.”  
  
“I would?”  
  
“Confused young man gets himself into a position of authority because he has the sheer dumb luck not to die? That’s terrible propaganda.”  
  
*  
  
“So what’s a word for you then?”  
  
“Beg pardon?”  
  
“If I’m a Sapphic, what are you?”  
  
“Uh. I suppose if we have to discuss things, ‘invert’ is the word I’m most comfortable with. It’s still an insult in some contexts, but more often it’s used to save Mother the trouble of having the slaves fetch the fainting couch.”  
  
“Urgh. You know what we call you down here?”  
  
“The evil magister from Tevinter?”  
  
“Gay. _Flaming_ gay, even.”  
  
“Thank …you?”  
  
*  
  
“Sovereign for your thoughts.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Two Sovereigns.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Five.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Ten and that’s my final offer.”  
  
“Sold! To the dwarf with no buttons!”  
  
“Well?”  
  
“I think you’ve just made me a richer man.”

*

“I hear condolences are in order.”  
  
“I hear that those shoes you’re wearing went out of fashion two years ago. Really, Madam de Fer, I expect better from you.”  
  
“On your engagement being broken.”  
  
“On my… _vishante kaffas_ , did my father affiance me without leave _again_?”  
  
“Do you mean to say you’ve never heard of Livia Herathinos?”  
  
“A bright, well-bred girl. I’m sure she’s disappointed that she won’t get to brag about her war hero husband, and that we’d actually have been miserable together. And no, I’ve never heard of her before in my life.”  
  
*  
  
“If Sera’s asking me about it, should I just assume you all know?”  
  
“Know what?”  
  
“That I prefer men.”  
  
“Uh… yeah.”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Did you think you were keeping it a secret?”  
  
“Not secret, exactly, but I’m not really sure how you all know. It’s not as though I’ve been cutting a swath.”

"You can tell."  
  
“You look.”  
  
“You think about it a lot, hands tracing over old scars, gentle where the hurt used to be-”  
  
“That’s private, Cole.”  
  
“Oh. Sorry.”  
  
*  
  
“I’m just going to come out and ask you, Sparkler.”  
  
“Well? Don’t keep me in suspense.”  
  
“You’re the only one here who’s never tried to talk to me about what happened in Kirkwall. Why is that?”  
  
“Why would I? That mage underground lead straight to Tevinter, and being injured in battle on the Imperium’s behalf confers instant citizenship. A good fifth of the mages under my command had escaped from the Gallows to get there, the poor sods.”  
  
“And that didn’t give you any opinions?”  
  
“Not any that haven’t already been said. Except maybe that I feel sorry for Hawke.”  
  
“You do?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I, after what she had to do?”  
  
“Good point.”  
  
“That’ll be ten sovereigns, please.”  
  
*  
  
“Right, so no wriggling out of it this time: are there people like me in your fancy-pants evil mage army?”  
  
“I don’t know why you want to know- I really can’t, in good conscious, advise fighting on Seheron as a career path.”  
  
“Answer the question, bright-britches.”  
  
“The armed forces are segregated on the basis of gender and magical talents. In the Imperium, you’d be called Soporati, which would make you part of the legion rather than an officer. Women are restricted to supporting roles, which generally pay less. Supposedly the trade off was not being on the front lines, but lines don’t really happen in any meaningful way on Seheron.”  
  
“And being an elf?”  
  
“Wouldn’t prevent you from joining, but wouldn’t look good when you came up from promotion either. Honestly, if you really wanted to fight on Seheron, I’d send you to become a praesumptor.”  
  
“A what?”  
  
“Praesumptor- a member of the thieves guild. We have an arrangement with them, so we don’t have to rely upon the Siccari for all our intelligence. Think like your Friends, but with a veneer of respectability.”  
  
“Respectability. Pah.”  
  
“You’d like their leader, I think. She’s very tall.”  
  
*  
  
“Really though- what did you think? That I’d had my lips sewn shut on a lark?”  
  
“Everyone has their off days.”  
  
“Well. You’re not wrong about that.”  
  
“And you’re just so fussy about the way you look!”  
  
“I’ve noticed that this is less of a problem this far south, but on Seheron, if you aren’t keeping your hair trimmed and regularly bathing and changing clothes, things will _literally_ start growing on you. And some of those things are poisonous.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“And really, I think the end result is worth the effort, don’t you?”  
  
“I’m not answering that.”  
  
“To each his own.”  
  
*  
  
“Planning of settling that fifteen crown debt anytime soon, Sparkler?”  
  
“I think you’ll find that when you balance that against the twenty you owe me for my thoughts that you’re the one who’s in debt.”  
  
“Son of a bitch.”  
  
*  
  
“You have been very quiet of late, Bull.”  
  
“Just thinking, Lady Seeker. Just thinking.”

* * *

 

He kept his distance from Dorian after that night where he’d nearly been stuck with the pointy end of his staff. Dorian himself asked him to, and then tried to avoid the Bull whenever possible. The Bull wasn't sure that he _really_ wanted to be left alone, but he couldn’t figure out how to approach the guy again, except for slowly and cautiously, which was difficult to manage when Dorian suddenly had business anywhere the Bull wasn’t every time he tried.  
  
That was in Skyhold, of course. In the field, Dorian was professional but curt, and at his request they each had their own tent to sleep in at night. Dorian didn’t start conversations with him, and he didn’t respond well when the Bull tried talking to him about anything not directly related to their mission, so that was a bust.  
  
The Bull tried to respect that, mostly, but even his patience had limits, and finding out that Dorian _did_ have grey hair after all was beyond them.  
  
Dorian ‘I am the prettiest peacock of them all’ Pavus had grey hair. More importantly, he’d had grey hair for a while, but had been dyeing it, and now that his dye had gone down with Haven or something he was coming in all salt-and-pepper at the roots. Better yet, he was _touchy_ about it.  
  
Dorian always fussed about his appearance, but it was an almost reasonable level of fussing: bathing whenever they were near a clean water source, trimming his moustache every other day, cleaning the blood from his face, hands and staff blades after every battle, reapplying kohl when Adaar had stopped things so he could wrestle with an astrarium for twenty minutes…  
  
This was something else entirely. Dorian was constantly messing with his hair now, fluffing up his hairline in an effort to hide it and just mussing everything up instead. He checked his reflection at almost every possible opportunity, growling in frustration, and then tried to pretend that he was doing something else. He fumed, he snapped, he generally acted like a young buck who’d unexpected lost his first set of horns, and it was fantastic.  
  
“I think it makes you look distinguished,” the Bull told him, and Dorian glared so fiercely that it was a miracle nothing caught fire.  
  
There was a place in Val Royeaux he was pretty sure was a dead drop for the Ben Hassrath, and he was kind of tempted to put the information in, because no one in the Inquisition seemed to fully appreciate this. There he was, the scourge of Qunandar, working himself into a fit over grey hair.  
  
“He’s got to still be dyeing his moustache, though,” the Bull confided in Krem. “He must have one of those tiny make up brushes Ma’am uses on her eyelashes or something.”  
  
Krem heaved a put-upon sigh which told him that he was going to be getting the ‘You Can’t Adopt Every Ugly Duckling You Come Across, Chief’ talk soon. Krem would do it himself, but as Ugly Duckling Number One it didn’t really have much of an impact coming from him.  
  
Not that it had much an impact come from his other boys, either- nothing’s managed to kill that part of him yet, and a lot has tried- but at least he could sit through it without laughing at them. They were just looking out for him, after all.  
  
Sure enough, two nights later he found himself in the Herald’s Rest, nodding along as Stitches went through the familiar song and dance routine: “No Chief, not even if you really like ruffling his feathers. Not even if his feathers are really soft, Chief. Not even if you think he’s actually a pretty swan instead of an ugly duckling, Chief.”  
  
“Swans are evil,” Skinner interrupted darkly. “They bite, and they have teeth.”  
  
He laughed, because he couldn’t tell whether she was continuing the metaphor or just really hated swans.

Krem was nowhere to be found during the talk, which was odd. Even if he didn’t bother adding anything to it, normally he lurked around for it. He excused himself as soon as he could, and eventually heard the two of them speaking on the roof of the tavern, near Cole’s alcove.  
  
“I am very aware of how easy it would be to hurt him,” Dorian was saying. He sounded only a little drunk. “He’s a squishy marshmallow man mountain…”

Krem snorted.  
  
“And I’m very much not,” Dorian finished. “I agree with you, it would end poorly, which is why I have no intentions towards your chief at all, let alone intentions of getting _close_.”  
  
The Bull frowned. Apparently Krem wasn’t at the ugly duckling talk because he was busy giving Dorian the shovel talk, which was…fucking weird. He could barely get the guy to talk to him anymore, let alone flirt, let alone anything that might require tools. And what did he mean _squishy_?  
  
“Here’s the problem,” Krem said. “As far as the chief’s concerned, you’re already close. If you crooked your little finger at him now the two of you would fall into bed quicker than a greased nug, no matter what else was going on.”  
  
He didn’t have to say it like that- like the Bull was all pathetic on him. Really Krem, that was hurtful. That hurt.  
  
“I- promise not to crook any of my fingers at him?” Dorian tried.  
  
“I’m not sure that you won’t.”  
  
“If you can’t trust my word, Aclassi, I’m not sure why we're having this conversation.”  
  
“I started it because the chief likes you, and he’s what you like.”  
  
“What, a man?” Dorian was starting to shut down, the Bull could hear him start to close himself off.  
  
“No, your type of man,” Krem replied, only a little impatiently. “Come on, we both know you can’t keep a secret in the legion. You were _sweet_ on Atticus Bessarion.”  
  
Krem had meant it to tease, but as the silence stretched out it was obvious that it had fallen flat.  
  
“That was… a long time ago,” Dorian said at last. “And the Bull is hardly Atticus.”  
  
“Well, no, he’s alive,” Krem said.  
  
It was Dorian’s turn to snort. “And Tal-Vashoth, with horns and everything.”  
  
“Does that matter? You haven’t acted like it does.”  
  
“It doesn’t help me as I try to not hurt him,” Dorian said. “Do you really- were there never moments when you looked at him and just thought ‘perimeter breach’, even when the Chargers were new?”  
  
“No,” Krem replied. “And if you’ve been having them, you’ve hid them well.”  
  
“Well, we’ll see how long that lasts,” Dorian sighed. “Hiding is not my strong suit.”  
  
“That’s kind of why I think you and the chief are headed towards one another,” Krem mused. “It's obvious- and you wouldn’t be trying to convince me you were dangerous if you didn’t want things to go that way too.”  
  
“I _am_ dangerous,” Dorian pointed out.  
  
“So’s the chief.”  
  
“It’s different. He’s in control of himself.”  
  
“Not all of the time- nobody is, especially not reavers.”

Dorian was silent.  
  
“Anyway, the point was I think the two of you could be good for each other,” Krem said, creaking a little as he stood up. “But if it comes down to you or him? It’s not going to be you.”  
  
“Understood.” Dorian sounded almost relieved.  
  
The Bull tucked that last bit of information to puzzle over later, and crept back down to his room before Krem could catch sight of him.


	3. Chapter 3

The days that follow that conversation were strange. The Bull had confirmation that Dorian didn’t actually want to be avoiding him- from the sound of it, he really wanted to be a whole lot closer to him-and normally that would be all he needed to make his move. But this wasn’t a normal situation.

Dorian was afraid of himself- afraid of losing control, of going mad. The Bull got that: he was a child of Par Vollen, and the Qun had been very clear about the dangers posed by those who lost their way and were driven insane through their futile struggles against the way things had to be.

And the Bull also got that he _didn’t_ get that. Going Tal-Vashosh wasn’t what his childhood had painted it to be. It would have been a relief if it had been- if he’d turned into a thoughtless destructive beast. Then he could have stopped hurting- maybe even gotten some kind of revenge. But no, he’d kept on thinking, kept on feeling- that madness he’d been taught to fear was not as sure a thing as he’d been told it was.

What Dorian was dealing with was a very different animal. Battle fatigue, after being on Seheron for fourteen years, plus whatever kind of demon crap came from being a mage. The two things probably fed on each other, the demons preying on the fatigue, and the fatigue being aggravated by the demons- small wonder the guy didn’t sleep much.

Still, normally that wasn’t a problem. He knew how to handle crazy- just look at the Chargers. Hell, look at the entire fucking Inquisition. Sera alone was twenty pounds of crazy in a five pound bag. It was just that Dorian, specifically, was the sort of crazy that made him worry that he was a danger to the Bull.

That was not something which the Bull had any kind of experience with. People being afraid of him? Sure, the horns were intimidating. People being afraid for him? Less experience, but the Chargers did their fair share of fussing. People being afraid of hurting him, specifically? That was new.

That was… really new, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

On an intellectual level, he didn’t really doubt that Dorian could hurt him. He’d been the dread Imperial Legatus, and even if the reality didn’t match up with the intel he’d gotten back when he was still Hissrad, it was still obvious that he was really good at killing things, especially big things. Every time they fought the Venatori or the Templars, their brutes went down in flames before the rest of them had time to blink.

But, on an emotional level, he had a really hard time imagining Dorian hurting him. Even after the incident during their last shared tent- maybe even especially after that. That had been Dorian out of control, convinced he was still fighting in Seheron and the Bull had somehow snuck into camp and gotten right up against his bedroll. Dorian, the guy who ran on tea, adrenaline, and willpower most of the time, who could only sleep with a dagger under his pillow, and then conjured a simulacrum that was capable of destroying threats on sight. Dorian, who hissed at a possible assassin “ _Take heed. Would you make peace with death? Or would you make peace with the Legatus?_ ” instead of killing him outright.

If that was the worst Dorian had to offer, then that wasn’t too bad.

Unfortunately, he still didn’t know where to go with that. Probably he should give up: there were serving girls with red hair and great tits, sweet, wide-eyed ex-Templars looking for a wild ride, jaded laughing mages who knew how to have a quick tumble and never get involved. It’s not like he didn’t have options.

He just wanted to figure out what his options were with Dorian, that was all. 

* * *

So that was the inside of the Bull’s head: stuck firmly in neutral, not sure how to approach Dorian and not sure how to pull away either. As for the inside of _Dorian’s_ head, something seemed to be unfucking itself a bit there, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.

It wasn’t like Dorian was sleeping any easier, but he was slowly and surely becoming less tightly wound. He smiled a bit more, held himself slightly less aloof- and he started more conversations about himself- conversations that actually told people about him, rather than just deflecting.

“All of this snow and cold is making me miss home,” he complained. They were off to fight a dragon- one of three in the Emprise du Lion- and the Bull was already in a good mood. He had a crack all lines up about needing a slave to rub his footsies when Dorian followed that up with. “I never thought I’d feel any kind of nostalgia for Akhaaz. Or Alam. Even Baq-Chisaari would be more hospitable than this.”

“Are you _from_ Seheron?” the Bull asked. He hadn’t thought that was the case, seeing as the guy had introduced himself as ‘most recently of Minrathous’- but in hindsight the ‘most recent’ qualifier was kind of an evasion.

“Not originally, no,” Dorian said. “Not officially even- I’ve still got my Legatus office and the complimentary apartment suite in Minrathous, and that’s where I’ll be returning to, probably, when I go back to Tevinter.”

The Bull let him contemplate in silence for a moment before he asked “So where are you from, originally?”

“I was born in Qarinus,” Dorian replied. “My family is fairly important in that region of the Imperium. We’ve got holdings in Asariel too, but that’s more for winters- it’s closer to Minrathous, so we’re more easily able to travel up to see the Provings, come Urthalis.”

“But Seheron’s home,” the Bull said.

Dorian shrugged helplessly. “As strange as it is, that’s the first place that springs to mind.”

The Bull didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t have to know- they had a fucking dragon to fight. 

* * *

“So what do you miss about Seheron?” the Bull asked once they’d returned to Suledin Keep.

Dorian stared at him over his half-raised tankard of ale for a while. He was already on drink number nine. That might have been why the Bull was asking, rather than waiting for Dorian to bring it up again himself.

“The heat,” Dorian replied finally. “Followed closely by the humidity.”

“Not having hundreds of fit young men at your command?” the Bull asked.

Dorian snorted. “Hardly. I mean, most of the centurions are-” He paused, and furrowed his eyes. “No longer twice my age, seeing as I’ll be thirty-five in the autumn. _Fasta vass_ , how did that happen?”

“Do you mean that in a ‘how am I still alive’ way or in a-” the Bull pointed towards Dorian’s hair, which was still coming in all salt-and-pepper “- _distinguished_ way.”

Dorian made a sort of laughing grunt of disgust. “Six in one, half dozen in the other, really.”

“Yeah, I get that,” the Bull said. “I like my odds of hitting forty, but it’ll probably still be a surprise when it comes.”

“To entering our dotage,” Dorian said, raising his tankard.

The Bull tapped his against Dorian’s. “May we live to see the day.”

They drank, and Dorian signaled the barkeep for another round. Over his head, the Bull mouthed ‘water his down’ and she gave a little nod in reply.

“Do you miss it? Your home?” Dorian asked.

“I miss the heat,” the Bull replied.

“Come on,” Dorian said, giving him a light kick under the table. “The least you could do is come up with your own evasions.”

“Thinking about home mostly makes me angry,” the Bull admitted. “The Qun is a good thing for a lot of people. It could be better for more people if it was as it claimed to be. Instead, everyone’s too chickenshit of becoming Tal-Vashoth to actually do anything about the questions they have.”

Dorian made a thoughtful noise.

“What?” the Bull asked.

“Nothing, really,” Dorian replied. “It’s just occurred to me that we have a fair bit in common, contrary to expectations.”

The barkeep slid their tankards towards them, and Dorian took a deep drink from his. His brows furrowed again, and then there was a loud clatter from behind the Bull as one of the Inquisition’s scouts knocked over the weapons’ rack by the door. When he turned back, Dorian was still drinking, but the tankard in front of the Bull had an imprint of his mouth in the foam.

Ah well. He'd just have to be sneakier next time. 

* * *

Dorian continued to unfuck himself in the head, and the Bull continued to be bewildered and delighted by it. Adaar took him, Solas, and Blackwall out for another pass of the Emerald Graves, and the three of them came back laughing and exchanging battle stories. Dorian took a drink whenever Solas used the phrase ‘in the Fade’. The Bull pointed it out to the elf, who immediately started using it less, especially when drinking with Dorian, which was a win for everyone in the Inquisition. He was pretty damn proud of arranging that.

Adaar brought Dorian, Sera, and Cassandra out to see the aptly named Forbidden Oasis, where the crystal shard things apparently pointed, or at least some vaguely foreboding scroll Josephine had arranged for the Inquisition to buy said they pointed. When they returned, Dorian was vehemently denying that he was a silver fennec, Sera was laughing about his great bear fixation, while Cassandra and Adaar were blushing so hard at first glance he thought they’d gotten sunburned.

“So… how was the wildlife?” the Bull asked Dorian that night at the tavern, as he sat down and stole the human’s drink.

Dorian scowled and motioned Cabot for another one. “Too much teeth and fur,” he complained.

The Bull smiled.

“…oh, you meant the gay clubs? Something I didn’t even know existed down here? Let alone had such a- a zoological flavor to them?” Dorian demanded.

The Bull’s smile widened.

“Did you know she was planning to drag us to every gay club in Southern Orlais?” Dorian demanded.

“No, of course not,” the Bull replied. “If I’d known she was planning that kind of trawl, I’d have made her wait until I was going with you.”

It was Dorian’s turn to frown.

“Besides, I doubt she hit every gay club- some of those places are for guys only,” the Bull told him. “She probably doesn’t know which of those are good.”

“I don’t understand why Orlais even has those,” Dorian said. “It’s not like it’s something that needs to be hidden away down here. Shouldn’t there just be clubs?”

“Well, yeah, there are, but if you’re looking to hook up with someone, then sometimes it’s easier to go someplace that you know is going to have your type of person in it,” the Bull explained. “Also, it makes hiring the right kind of stripper acts easier.”

Dorian snorted, but that might have been because Cabot had slid him his drink, and more than half of it was foam.

And then they went back to the Hinterlands, him, Cassandra, and Dorian, to track down a poetry book that had been waylaid by the fact that it had been hauled into the fucking Hinterlands while it was a demon-infested warzone, as opposed to one just overrun with bears. Cassandra blushed scarlet, refused to meet anyone’s eyes, and snapped when spoken too.

“You know, I considered asking you for help with the whole romance thing,” Adaar told him. “For an entire hour even, before I ran into Dorian. He’s wised up to your whole not-drinking game, by the way.”

At that point, half of Skyhold was in on Operation: Get Dorian To Drink Himself Into A Stupor On Special Occasions Only, so that wasn’t a shock. The Bull nodded.

“Do you want advice?” Adaar asked him seriously.

“Do you _have_ advice?” the Bull countered.

Adaar looked over to where Cassandra was chopping way more wood than they needed. “No,” he said sadly.

“Well. I don’t know what to do with the whole romance thing,” the Bull replied, carefully not remembering Miraal. “But if you want to know how to have sex with a human woman, let me know.”

“Thank the Maker,” Adaar said in a rush. “Is there any way of knowing whether or not it’ll fit before you try making it fit?”

He was really, really proud of the way he didn’t laugh at the Inquisitor. 

* * *

He didn't start putting things together until he saw Dorian naked.

It wasn’t really the sexy kind of naked- if it had been the sexy kind of naked, the Bull wouldn’t have been thinking anything that could have lead to the epiphany he’d had, because he would have been too busy thinking of ways to make Dorian scream.

Unfortunately, he just happened to be bathing at the same time as the ‘vint, and for once Dorian got out at around the same time as he did. Normally, Dorian was the first one in the water- sometimes he was the only one in the water- his magic providing a barrier to damn off part of the river or whatever, and heat the water up so that by the time he left he was covered in steam. He was always dressed before he could get a clear look at the guy- except for now.

The guy had _scars_ , and not just on his lips. Nope- there was an old silvery slash across his ribs where someone had slashed at him (messily, wildly, inaccurately- either they were panicked and desperate, or they just had no clue what they were doing with their blade), an ugly circle on his left hip where he’d been gored (did someone catch him on their _horns_?), a shiny burn across his lower back (his own people or a saarebas?) and his right leg was covered in an intricate spider web of scars (some kind of trap?). There were others too, of course, but those were the big ones.

It didn’t make a lot of sense. How did a guy end up with that many scars, but only had a few little ones where it could show?

Then it hit him: he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. But the ‘vints wielded physical perfection like a dagger, and wouldn’t want to have the face of their invasion to show any wear, any more than they would want to know that their Legatus hadn’t gone in search of the title.

Fucking Tevinter. It didn’t deserve the people it tried to throw away. It was a good thing Dorian was here then, where there were people who would care about him for who he was, rather than who they expected him to be.

“So… is there some kind of way to magic that scars away?”

“A tedious, convoluted and expensive way, yes,” Dorian confirmed, smiling slightly. He’d _wanted_ the Bull to guess that. “It’s better to get it healed straight away, but healing in such a way as to prevent scarring takes time, which I didn’t generally have on Seheron. I probably wouldn’t have bothered with a lot of the injuries if it weren’t for the fact that seeing them would have given several of Magisters fits- maybe I would have had the ones on my face taken care of. A profile this good deserves to be preserved.”

The only scars he had that showed were on his face, but the Bull decided against pointing that out directly. “How’d they react when you turned up with your lips like that?”

“Oh, Magister Ahriman wet himself, literally,” Dorian told him with great enthusiasm. “He spent the entire rest of the subcommittee meeting attempting to wave over the slave serving drinks, so he could upend the wine and blame the wetness on that- and I kept the drinks very close to me. It was a bright spot in an otherwise dismal day.”

Dorian had finished dressing. The Bull had not, even though he had much less clothing to put on. It was just the two of them- Adaar had pleaded being tired and using his barriers to keep the worst of the gore off, and Cassandra would bathe with Scout Harding later.

He grinned as he watched Dorian leave. It was subtle, it wasn’t explicit, and it was going to need a lot of care, but he couldn’t help but get the impression that he’d been given permission. 

* * *

“So, Dorian, you’re human, right?”

“Yes. Was that somehow in doubt?”

“Do you have any experience with romance?”

“Not as such, no.”

“Oh.”

“Dare I ask what brought on this line of inquiry, Inquistor?”

“Well, I uh-”

“Did the Bull put you up to this?”

“No! No, I’m just asking for a friend! Another friend, not the Bull.”

“I’m standing right here, Dorian. If I wanted to talk to you about romance, I’d talk to you about romance. Incidentally, how do you feel about flowers?”

“They’re overrated.”

“Hmm… I’ll have to think of something else then.”

“Flowers should still be good for Cassandra though, right?”

“To judge from her taste in literature- and I often judge her taste in literature- Cassandra enjoys flowers, poetry, romantic interludes in secluded groves, long moonlit walks while holding hands, and the syrupy exchanging of love tokens to be worn into battle, especially if they might block otherwise-fatal chest wounds.”

“Yeah. Yeah, she does.”

*

“You know what I miss most about the North? Bananas.”

“We have plenty of bananas. Milady has arranged for regular shipments of northern fruits.”

“Yeah, but they’re all from Antiva, or maybe Rivain. They’re not the same.”

“How so?”

“They’re too squishy, and small. I have a real hankering for something… firmer.”

“Are you still talking about the fruit?”

“Firm, yet bendy, with plenty of meat to wrap my lips around.”

“You’re not talking about the fruit.”

“Just ignore him, Blackwall. You’ll only encourage him otherwise.”

*

“Do you want me to take some of my arrows back?”

“What?”

“Take some of my arrows back. From your arse. To make room. For the Bull.”

“Did you know that your laughter sounds like a gang of baboons mating with a hyena? Because it does.”

*

“So, if not flowers, then what?”

“We’re not having this conversation.”

“Jewelry? Chocolates?”

“Right now the most romantic thing I could think of would be to not be in a knee-high pile of gurgut entrails.”

“I could help with that, you know.”

“You can carry me if I pass out or break both my legs and under no other circumstances. Do you understand, Bull?”

“Fair enough.”

*

“So, Sparkler, I’ve got some questions.”

“My usual rates apply.”

“I’ve been thinking of trying my hand at another romance series. Something a little edgier- maybe starring a battlemage from Tevinter and a Qunari mercenary. What do you think?”

“No. And you can have that thought for free.”

“Come on, at least give me an idea of what angle I should work from. Two people with only love to hold them together in the face of two worlds trying to tear them apart?”

“And again, for free: **no**.”

“Eh, that’s a little too gentle, I think. Something angrier.”

“Don’t help the dwarf, Bull, please?”

“Okay, so a little less gentle then. What then, is their some kind of fantasy I should be chasing? A battlemage looking to play the Ben-Hassrath captive? Or trying to conquer some Qunari territory?”

“Is that really what you think of me?”

“Uh…”

“No, of course that’s what you think of me. That _is_ me, and it’s been me for years.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Just write what you will, but leave myself and the Bull out of it, alright?”

“Alright.”

*

“Cole, the chocolate that was in my quarters. Was that you?”

“I’m not chocolate.”

“No, I mean did you put it there?”

“No: _damn horns make me too obvious, but walk normal and you’re not notable_.”

“It kind of ruins the surprise if you tell people, kid.”

*

“I’ve heard the most distressing rumor, Dorian.”

“As have I: your friend the duke is in poor health, is he not?”

“Bastien is not my ‘friend’ and you may keep your bland and ill-informed observations to yourself.”

“I always strive to return the courtesies I am shown.”

*

“So, did you enjoy it?”

“Enjoy what? Round seven hundred and forty-three of Dorian Pavus versus the bears?”

“The chocolate.”

“Oh. Yes. That. I… may have given it to Dagna.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, when expensive imported foods show up in my quarters unannounced, my first thought is poison, followed shortly by a triggering mechanism for some kind of mine or trap. I wanted to have it checked, and when she was finished, it was no longer edible.”

“…Oh. Yeah, I probably should have figured.”

*

“I’m just saying, Tiny: there’s all this tension there, and I know I caused it, but I don’t know how I caused it, you know?”

“I can guess. Look, it’s like this: Dorian didn’t set out to become any kind of military leader, but he’s been one for over a decade because there weren’t a lot of other people vying for the position, and it needed to be done. This is the first time he’s been away from the war on Seheron in all that time, and he’s still fighting. Can you really blame the guy for wanting to be more than the job he does?”

“You both realize that I’m standing right here, correct?”

“Well, do I have it right?”

“And now I’ll be standing all the way over there.”

*

“Here, catch!”

“And what is this?”

“Candied pineapples.”

“I- the tin’s already been opened.”

“Yeah, I had a few. They’re not poisoned.”

“…thank you.”

*

“Dorian, darling, there are matters which I must discuss with you.”

“Pressing enough matters that they can’t wait until we’re not traipsing around your country’s corpse-possessed warzone?”

“It concerns the Bull.”

“Madam de Fur, before you continue, you should know that I have received no less than five ‘come to Andraste’ talks over the Bull, and we have yet to kiss. It is, quite frankly, more than a little ridiculous.”

“Yet?”

“ _Vishante kaffas!_ ”

“Ooh, kinky.”

“I will set your horns on fire.”

“Kinkier.”

“Don’t you ever stop?”

“I can go all night.”

“Must you- why are you so- _argh_!”

“Perhaps this isn’t the best time after all.”

“On that we can agree.”

*

“Why Cassandra, I’ve never seen you smile so much!”

“I am not smiling.”

“Only because I’ve pointed it out.”

“Are you jealous, Dorian?”

“Of your smile? Of course not. I have an excellent smile, to go with my excellent teeth.”

“Of having cause to smile.”

“With all due respect, Seeker, the world is ending, and it is ending in the midst of at least four different wars. Finding cause to smile would require several head injuries which I am fortunate not to be suffering.”

“Tell yourself that if you must, but it would be far more convincing if you weren’t pining so.”

“I am not pining.”

“And I am no giddy schoolgirl.”

“That would be easier to believe if you didn’t blush like one.”

*

“Quite the stink-eye you’ve got going, Dorian.”

“Really? I can’t imagine why.”

“It’s a pretty picture isn’t it? Would you like me to flex?”

“I’d like you to wear some armor on your torso.”

“Is the view distracting you? Do I tempt you?”

“You know that you do.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

“Just try and watch for blades headed for your heart, if you could? I’d dislike seeing you hurt because you dropped your guard at the wrong moment.”

*

“So, here’s another story idea for you: two people, each from the outskirts of their cultures, finding each other among the chaos of a world gone mad, and making a space of safety for one another, for as long as they are able.”

“Bull, I thought you said that if you wanted to talk to me about romance, you’d talk to me about romance.”

“Tiny didn’t send me to talk to you.”

“I believe you believe that.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you and the Bull had a long and involved talk last night- about your writing, if the way you were scribbling away was any indication.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Hey, I was Ben-Hassrath, remember? I know how fish for information without it seeming like I’m after anything at all.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You one-eyed bastard son of-”

“Hey now, you wanted to use us as inspiration.”

*

“Please exercise caution, my dear.”

“Are you talking to me, ma’am?”

“Of course I am, dear. Our Lord Dorian is quite sure of himself, as befits the _second_ most dangerous thing in our group. We can only hope that confidence is never crushed.”

“Are you- worried that I might hurt Dorian?”

“Of course I am, darling. When a mage in a Circle self-destructs, the effects can be limited. When a mage out in the world- a mage well-versed in dangerous and forbidden arts, a mage used to commanding armies- does so, the effects are catastrophic. I would prefer to be ending catastrophes, not creating them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am.”

“See that you do.” 

* * *

About thirty seconds into his planned seduction of Dorian, he had the human clutching the edge of his desk for support, nearly bent double with laughter. That wasn’t the kind of bending he’d been going for, but he realized that he’d never actually heard Dorian laugh before- _really_ laugh, not just chuckle bitterly- and the guy probably needed it.

Let it never be said that the Bull didn’t give the people he cared about what they needed. He rearranged himself on the bed slightly, so that his seductive pose was a little more ridiculous, and was rewarded with the sight of Dorian positively howling until there were tears in his eyes.

“ _Riding the Bull_ ,” Dorian repeated, the barely suppressed mirth in his voice threatening to break back out into giggling. “Does that line actually work?”

“Hey, laughing is sexy,” the Bull replied.

Dorian snorted. “You think everything is sexy.”

“I think you should laugh more often,” the Bull said. “And I’d like to make that happen.”

“Maker, the things you say,” Dorian muttered. Then he straightened, and added in a firmer, louder tone of voice “We really shouldn’t do this, you know. This is bad idea.”

“I know you think this is a bad idea,” the Bull countered. “ _I’m_ not so sure about that.”

Dorian made a frustrated growling noise. “What is it you even want?”

“I want you,” the Bull replied. “I thought I made that pretty clear.”

Dorian huffed. “How do you want me? I mean- don’t leer like that, it makes your face look more ridiculous than your trousers- is it some kind of _relationship_ you’re after?” He sounded more than a little frightened by the prospect.

“It can be, if that’s what you want,” the Bull said carefully. “But if you don’t, I’m good with light and casual.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“You're perfectly okay with being a port in a storm?” Dorian challenged.

“I thought Varric did a good job of articulating my feelings about being a safe harbor.”

Dorian closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“And _I_ don’t want to hurt _you_ ,” he replied. “So let’s set up a watchword.”

“Watchword?” Dorian repeated incredulously.

“Yeah- one of us says it, we stop, no questions asked,” the Bull explained. “I’m thinking ‘katoh’.”

Dorian’s eyes widened fractionally, reminding him that he was dealing with someone with a passable knowledge of Qunlat gleaned from years of fighting Qunari. “Well. _That_ would certainly kill the mood.”

The Bull nodded. Dorian took a hesitant step forwards, then a more confident one, and then he strode across the room, grabbed the Bull by the horns and pulled him into a kiss.

He tasted like Cabot’s ale, which wasn’t all that surprising, and he kissed commandingly, _imperiously_ even. Of course he did. That’s probably how whatever men he was fucking back in Tevinter expected the Legatus to kiss.

Well, fuck that. He wasn’t here to kiss the Legatus: he was here to kiss Dorian.

He tried to soften the kiss as much as he could, slowing the movements of his mouth and gentling his fingers through Dorian’s hair. He still hadn’t started dyeing it again, and the streaks of salt and pepper were more obvious now, covering nearly the whole of his head, even though his moustache remained as black as ever. The Bull decided to take that as an encouraging sign, even as Dorian broke the kiss with an impatient huff.

“Hey,” the Bull said. “Let’s slow down a little.”

“After all this time you want to take this _slow_?” Dorian asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Like I said, I can go all night. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

Dorian arched his eyebrow a little higher.

“Me big bad Qunari reaver,” the Bull reminded him. “You soft human mage.”

Dorian snorted, but this time it was a laughing sound rather than a dismissive one.

“I think you might have left out some grammar there,” he said.

“Let me pamper you a little,” the Bull said. “It’ll make things go better, trust me?”

He hadn’t meant that to be a question, exactly, but he didn’t regret asking it now that it was in the open.

“Maker help me,” Dorian muttered, sliding into his lap. He kissed the Bull again instead of actually answering the question, but the Bull decided to let him get away with it, for now. 

* * *

“It would be a bad idea for you to stay the night here,” Dorian told him when they were finished. “I can’t guarantee that I would take well to waking up with a Qunari in my bed. Quite the opposite in fact.” He was mumbling, already half asleep, the words smearing against the Bull’s pectoral muscles.

“So I’ll be gone before you wake up,” the Bull replied.

Dorian grunted in acknowledgement, and the promptly fell asleep, sprawled over the Bull’s chest. He probably could have slid out from under him, but that might have woken him up, and he didn’t want to rob Dorian of sleep he desperately needed. So he stayed, and listened to Dorian’s soft snoring, until he apparently drifted off and didn’t wake until the sun crept in through the window and hit his eye.

Dorian was still asleep, though he’s slid off of the Bull’s chest at some point, and nestled firmly along his side. He was still too asleep to be very proud of himself for causing that, but he could tell the feeling was coming. The Bull watched Dorian sleep for a few moments, all sleep-limp and relaxed.

_Kadan_ he thought blearily, reaching out to run his fingers through Dorian’s hair.

His hand froze before he could make contact.

_Aw, fucknuggets_ , he thought, much less blearily.

This wasn’t supposed to happened. He was suppose to be a safe harbor, a port in a storm, light and casual and _fun_.

He wasn’t supposed to be in love. Koslun’s balls, this wasn’t supposed to happen to him again. Once was enough. Once almost killed him.

Twice? Twice would definitely kill him.

He eased himself up and away from Dorian’s still-sleeping form, and collected his things. He had promised to be gone before he woke up, after all. If nothing else, he could manage not to fuck that up.

He could _mostly_ manage not to fuck that up, he amended as he heard Dorian stirring behind him. He didn’t dare look back, and therefore couldn’t tell whether or not Dorian actually saw him leave.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, there's a cannibalism reference in this chapter.

A blizzard had apparently passed through that night: you couldn’t tell it from within Skyhold, as apparently whatever enchantments had made the place more or less serviceable after centuries of disuse also made it not accumulate snow, but once you got out on the battlements you could see the snow mounds piled high, just waiting to turn into an avalanche. Cullen’s men had their hands full making the roads passable again, but the Inquisition’s larder was well-stocked, and as long as another blizzard didn’t roll through before more supplies reached Skyhold, there was no need to ration. People were just stuck.  
  
Somehow or another, he and Dorian managed to avoid each other anyway. It wasn’t planned. The Bull just didn’t know what to do about their situation, and whatever Dorian’s reasons were, they didn’t compel him to seek the Bull out.  
  
The Bull saw him around. The light from his corner of the library was still visible from the tavern, and they passed one another on the training grounds, when the Bull was working with his Chargers and Dorian drilling the mages. Dorian didn’t come to the tavern, and the Bull didn’t come to the library.   
  
People around Skyhold seemed to have some idea what had happened, giving him vaguely pitying looks and topping off his ale for free. One night he came back to his room and found a sack of kittens wriggling around on his bed.   
  
“The fuck?” the Bull muttered, as the kittens stumbled out of the sack and mewed piteously.   
  
“Their mother can’t take care of them. The merchant didn’t see her underneath his wheels,” said Cole form behind him, making him jump.  
  
“Koslun’s rack, kid,” he said.   
  
Cole held out an eyedropper and indicated a saucer full of milk next to the bed. “The stablehands were going to drown them,” he said seriously, and then disappeared.   
  
The Bull sighed. The kittens continued to cry.   
  
“Well, at least this version of the ugly duckling speech will be interesting,” he said, and picked up the kitten that had stumbled closest to the edge of the bed to feed it.   
  
He and Dorian continued to avoid one another, until Adaar dragged them both out to Crestwood. He left the kittens (Dawnstone, Argent, Viridium, Onyx, and Killer) in the care of his Chargers, who had skipped over the ugly duckling speech in favor of the cute kitten cooing. The Bull made a mental note to start figuring out the logistics keeping pregnant tabbies with his company at all times. He was still chewing his way through all the associated problems that could cause (for one thing, while he had no problem with his boys being reduced to saying things like ‘who’s a pretty kitty?’ when they were about to give him the ugly duckling speech, it would kind of be a problem with all the rest of their mercenary work, and for another, that would end up being a lot of cats) as they rode.   
  
That was probably why it took him until first watch to realize that the vaguely pitying looks people were sending him were accompanied by dire glares in Dorian’s direction. Of course they were. Somehow or another, despite being over seven feet tall, horned, and a Reaver, the people of the Inquisition had decided that Dorian was going to be the one to hurt the Bull, and now that they hadn’t been speaking to one another, they just assumed that was what had happened. Dorian didn’t seem to notice, and Adaar was intervening whenever it seemed like someone was trying to force some kind of conflict, but most of the others had decided that Dorian was at fault.  
  
“Alright look, knock it off,” he said finally when Varric started prodding at the ‘vint. “This one’s on me.”  
  
“What do you mean, Tiny?”  
  
“I mean stop needling Dorian, he didn’t do anything wrong,” the Bull replied. “My issues are what fucked things up, so you can stop trying to defend my honor or whatever the fuck it is you think you’re doing, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Varric said, holding up his hands. “You’ve got it.”  
  
Dorian looked at him strangely, but didn’t say anything. After a moment, he dipped his quill back in his ink jar and turned back to his writing.

* * *

“Her name was Miraal,” he said the next day, while he and Dorian were scouting around the flooded remains of Old Crestwood.   
  
“Who?” Dorian asked, bewildered. “Did you know someone here from before the Blight?”  
  
The Bull shook his head. “She was a baker in Par Vollen- had a shop right near the Ben-Hassrath training grounds. I used to go there in the evenings to unwind, watch her knead the dough and set it out to rise. One day, I noticed that she would put a pinch of sugar into the dough before she folded it into the pan, completely against regulations. It wasn’t like it hurt anyone, though, so I didn’t report it. Just kept coming in there, day after day, watching her put too much sugar into the bread.”  
  
Dorian didn’t reply, but they’d stopped moving and his face was attentive.   
  
“And it started bugging me, because she was so consistent with it,” the Bull continued. “Everyone breaks a little rule like that every once and awhile, but she broke it in every loaf she made. That had to add up- she had to be using noticeably more sugar than the other bakers. So, I went looking, and that’s how I discovered that there was a black market on Par Vollen.”  
  
“They didn’t cover that in your Ben-Hassrath training?” Dorian asked.   
  
“Nah. Black markets happen in places like Kont-aar where half of everyone is _viddathari_ and doesn’t know any better, or Seheron where, well…”  
  
“Believe me, I know what supply lines are like on Seheron,” Dorian said wryly.   
  
“Yeah, well. Things are different on Par Vollen. People all work together seamlessly, the lines of production are unbroken, and there was nothing to struggle against.” That was the illusion, anyway. It had been his job to keep it, but he hadn’t known how thin it was when he started. “The only problem that happened on Par Vollen was _venak-taar_.”  
  
“That’s… some kind of illness?” Dorian asked.   
  
“It means ‘wearying sickness’. It’s a mental disorder, described as doubt upon irrational doubt in the Qun piling on top of one another until the person suffering it snaps and become Tal Vashoth. It was my job to watch out for it, catch it before it ended in dead kids and foaming at the mouth. Warning signs include expressing the feeling that the Qun isn’t working, or wanting to change it to make it work better, especially if the person in question was part of the Antaam or Athlok. The Qun wasn’t theirs to puzzle over: that’s the job of the priesthood.”  
  
“So… sedition, basically,” Dorian said.   
  
“Pretty much, though it’s considered a contagious disease rather than anything that… individual. I got involved with the black market looking for it, and found a bunch of people who just wanted to vent without the risk of re-education. They did their jobs, and with the exception of a few drunkards at the still they were running no one was getting hurt. No foaming at the mouth, no violence, nothing like I’d been taught to guard against. They just made a space outside the Qun, that was all.”  
  
“And Miraal?”  
  
“She knew what my role was,” the Bull said. “When she saw me at one of the bazaars they had going, she took action. Next time I went, the place had been cleared out, and she was waiting for me with her very illegal daggers. She’d come from Ben-Hassrath stock, and her tamassran hadn’t realized that she was unsuited for any kind of religious work until late in her childhood. She knew what she was doing. It was the first time I’d seen anyone involved with the black market threaten violence and I could think was how calm and reasonable she was being. I could have easily defeated her and gotten all of her friends sent in for re-education. It would have made my career. I could have ended up in charge of the Ben Hassrath one day for containing a _venak-taar_ outbreak that large. She knew it. She _said_ it, and it was just- it was such broken thing to say, you know?”

“I don’t, actually,” Dorian said, looking confused.   
  
“I should have turned her in when I realized that she was breaking the rules consistently,” the Bull told him. “It was my duty to report them all, it was my purpose in keeping the Qun running. My career should have had nothing to do with it. But I knew guys who would have been thinking of nothing else but climbing in rank, and people who would have been far rougher on her group than they needed to be, because it would have made them feel powerful. I- I had doubts, and she could see it. We talked. It lead to more- for the two of us, I mean.”  
  
“She’s the reason you left the Qun,” Dorian realized, sympathy in his tone. “You fell in love with her, so you left.”   
  
“Not exactly. I left the Qun so that I could love people without being afraid it would get them taken away from me. I loved her, but even after she’d been killed…” the Bull sighed. “Look, I guess what I was trying to say here is that I didn’t know I was lying when I said I was good with light and casual, but I was.”  
  
Dorian was silent for a time. “I knew,” he said at last. He chuckled bitterly. “I knew, and I did it anyway: the latest on a long list of reasons why this was a bad idea.”  
  
The Bull had kind of been expecting that, but he still wanted Dorian to say the words. “So you don’t want to try for something serious.”  
  
“I- it’s not you,” he said, which wasn’t an answer. “It’s Seheron.”  
  
“Seheron?” the Bull asked, because if Dorian had been having issues stemming from there during that night, he’d missed it completely.   
  
“I have to go back,” Dorian hissed, with surprising vehemence. “You don’t understand, it’s- do you know why we haven’t won the war and taken back Seheron, let alone started laying siege to Par Vollen?”  
  
“The Antaam?” the Bull guessed.   
  
Dorian shook his head. “We haven’t won because we don’t _want_ to- taking back Seheron was never part of Minrathous’ foreign policy, merely its rhetoric.”

That didn’t make the slightest bit of sense. “What?”  
  
“It’s called the Fabian Strategy- named after my great-great-grandfather, as a matter of fact,” Dorian explained acrimoniously. “When Seheron fell to the Qunari in the previous age, he came up with the idea in order to prevent an invasion of Qarinus. We would prevent the Qunari from gaining enough control over Seheron to use it as a staging area for an invasion of the mainland, using hit and run tactics and generally causing enough trouble so that they continually have to reinforce their position on the island, and can never build up for an invasion. I don’t know why the Qunari haven’t sent all of their forces to bear on the island, but I suspect it’s the same reason Minrathous has for not escalating things by instituting a draft or commissioning better war machines from the dwarves. _Bellum ad infinitum_ is preferable to _bellum internecium_ , after all. The tide will go in, and the tide will go out, and both Qunandar and Minrathous will harry the place until it’s worn into the sea, rather than engaging in full-scale invasions,” Dorian snorted bitterly. “It’s been so long that it’s become entrenched in our national politics: there’s a war in Seheron, which we will win, but no reason to worry overmuch about it. It’s there to one-up your political enemies as much as anything else. The Senate gets an excuse to grandstand and pretend our large army is for protection from the Qunari rather than putting down slave rebellions, the mainland gets to live in the assumption that the war is little more than an eye-watering slap fight that will never touch them while revealing in all the patriotic fervor and glory that wartime politics provides, and Seheron itself simply doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. _Fuck_ the soldiers fighting there, and _especially_ fuck the people trying to live their lives on the place.”  
  
Dorian cut himself off with a frustrated growl and scrubbed his hand over his face. The Bull waited.   
  
“I have to go back,” he repeated. “No one is going to give a damn about Seheron or the people on it unless I’m there to _make_ them give a damn, and that’s not a place I want anyone I care about following me.”  
  
Before the Bull could answer they were interrupted by a demon shouting “You there! I order you to tell me why nothing obeys my commands.”  
  
“Uh?” the Bull asked. “What?”  
  
“Not you,” snapped the demon. “Let the other one talk.”  
  
“I told Adaar to bring Solas on this mission,” Dorian muttered.

* * *

It would have been better if Dorian had just told him no, if he’d said ‘I’m not interested’. Then the Bull could put their something to the side and moved on. It didn’t matter what his feelings were if Dorian was never going to reciprocate any of them. That would have been the end of it.   
  
Instead, Dorian had given him a new version of the ‘I don’t want to hurt you’ line, one that involved him explicitly saying that he cared about the Bull, which just… left him with a whole lot of something and absolutely nowhere to put it.   
  
He wasn’t even sure he wanted to put it anywhere- that implied he was keeping it. And it was horrible, caring this much about someone who he (probably) couldn’t have, a cross between thinking of his tama still on Par Vollen being grateful he’d gotten out, and waiting by one of his boy’s sickbeds to see if they were even going to make the night.   
  
He’d really thought Miraal would be it for him, romantically speaking, and this was why: being in love _hurt_ , it was terrifying, and it would only end in tears, and most of those were going to be his. Maybe if there was someone else, a third party to be in love with, this would be less difficult. Or maybe that would just multiply the pain and the terror.  
  
There was no way of knowing. That wasn’t how it had happened, and now it was real, and he had to figure out how to deal with it. He was in love with Dorian, and one way or another, he was going to lose him. He didn’t know if he wanted to keep the guy at arms’ length and hope the feelings faded before they parted, or if he wanted to hold Dorian close while he could.   
  
He didn’t ever wish that he hadn’t fallen in love with Miraal, was the thing. If he could go back and change anything, the only thing he would change was the way she’d died. Everything else- the arguments, the frantic moments where they both wanted to go slow but didn’t want to get caught, getting flour stuck up his nose and sneezing for days- he would keep. And if he couldn’t prevent her from dying, he wouldn’t change anything at all.   
  
That would have put him firmly in the ‘hold him close’ camp if he had the slightest idea that Dorian would have the same lack of regrets. As it was… he wasn’t even sure Dorian felt that way about him. ‘Care about’ was like _kadan_ , in a way. It just meant he was important to Dorian, it didn’t say how. Dorian could care about him as a friend. He _did_ care about him as a friend- they were friends. He cared about the Bull enough to not want him on Seheron, but considering how he felt about _Seheron_ …  
  
He just didn’t know. He had no idea what was happening here, let alone what to do about it, and talking to Dorian had cleared up nothing at all. It had just… something.  
  
A whole lot of something, and nowhere to go.

* * *

“For the sake of completeness, Dorian, Varric and the Bull have asked me to relate some questions to you.”  
  
“What sort of questions and why aren’t they asking me themselves?”  
  
“For example: worst thing you’ve ever eaten?”  
  
“You don’t want to know, and neither do I.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Long protracted sieges crop up on Seheron like the flu. Supply lines get spotty and cooks get _creative_.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“There were quite a lot mystery meat stews. And, in particularly bad cases, a distressing number of bodies turning up with their buttocks missing.”  
  
“You’re joking, right? Please, tell me you’re joking.”  
  
“You don’t want to know, and neither do I.”  
  
*  
  
“So, Tiny, are smiles and laughter forbidden by the Qun, or were the Qunari in Kirkwall just particularly grim?”  
  
“Nah, we joke amongst ourselves. Laughing together is a good bonding activity, you know? Makes everyone feel good about each other.”  
  
“Qunari jokes. This I’ve got to hear.”  
  
“Well, most of our jokes don’t translate too well into Trade.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
*  
  
“So, I was talking to old Leggy-tarts the other day, and he was telling me that they don’t have nugs up north.”  
  
“Eh, it wouldn’t surprise me if some of the magisters kept them as pets…”  
  
“Yeah, but I mean, like, you don’t have nugs spawning by every trash heap and shite. That’s what he said. He said you’ve got nug-sized land lobster thingies instead.”  
  
“Oh man, robber crabs. I haven’t thought about robber crabs in _years_.”  
  
“But those are _real_?”  
  
“Yep. Good eating too.”  
  
*  
  
“So when you say don’t translate well, do you mean that Qunari jokes are all puns? Because that would explain a lot about you, actually.”  
  
“Well, a lot of them involve wordplay. But mostly it’s just that the Qun is such a different system. If you don’t know how the Qun works, they don’t make a lot of sense.”  
  
“Well, every country’s got their own system.”  
  
“Not like the Qun. Look, let me put it this way: one of the first jokes I heard after I got clear of the Qun was this one: a vaudevillian approaches the owner of a cabaret, says he’s got a great brother-sister act. He then details the act, which involves an incestuous threesome with a donkey and ends with the sister killing the brother in a ritual blood magic sacrifice. ‘That’s terrible,’ says the cabaret owner. ‘What do you call it?’”  
  
“Well, in Kirkwall, you’d call that the Circle of Magi.”  
  
“And in Orlais it’s the Great Game, in Nevarra it’s the Mortalitasi, in Orzammar it’s the Noble Caste, in Tevinter it’s the Magisterium, in the Anderfels it’s the Grey Wardens, in Fereldan it’s the Bannorn-”  
  
“Used to be Orlesians.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I knew a guy who got a gimp leg in Fort Drakon for telling that one, back when there was occupying shite going on. He called the act the Orlesians, so they gave him the Orlesian boot.”  
  
“Yeah, you see? It’s universal. Except in the Qun. It doesn’t really work with the Qun. You try telling that with the punch line ‘the Salasari’ and all you’re going to get is a bunch of blank looks.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“That joke confused the shit out of me when I first arrived. It took me ages to get it. _Skinner_ had to explain it to me.”

*

“Knight to F3.”  
  
“You sure you want to do this now?”  
  
“Is that a problem?”  
  
“Well. We’re in the middle of the Emerald Graves. Shouldn’t you be concerned with the history or the ruins of some shit?”  
  
“This is a graveyard. The Dalish fought, they lost, they died, and now their descendents wander Thedas in near-complete ignorance of the culture they purport to uphold. My people might have had a life here before that fate befell them, but the stench of misery is too pervasive for me to reach it right now.”  
  
“Alrighty then! Right back at you with Ben-Hassrath to F6.”  
  
*  
  
“So, like, you don’t really have spiders the size of saucers up there, right?”  
  
“Because the spiders down here are tiny.”  
  
“Not cave-spiders. Spider-spiders. Like, you find in the bath spiders.”  
  
“Yeah, they get that big up there. And bigger. I’ve had to shoo out spiders the size of dinner plates before.”  
  
“Shoo? You don’t squish ‘em?”  
  
“Nah. Skeeters aren’t exactly small up north, and I’d rather the spiders eat them than the spiders get squished. Unless they’re on my face. All bets are off if they go for the face.”  
  
“That’s shite.”  
  
“No, that’s spiders.”  
  
“Shite spiders.”  
  
“Pretty much, yeah.”  
  
*  
  
“You know what, Tiny? Hit me.”  
  
“Uh… Varric? Are you feeling okay?”  
  
“With a joke.”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“No, jokingly. Come on, I bet you five royals I can get it.”  
  
“A meeting of the Salasari convenes. The Ariqun opens with a saying from Ashkaari Koslun: the dog which barks must receive the first cut meat. The Arigena and the Arishok nod along, but as soon as the meeting is over, they turn to one another in confusion. ‘What’s bark?’ asks she. ‘What’s meat?’ asks he.”  
  
“…ha?”  
  
“You see, because the Antaam go places where supplies like meat aren’t a given, and the Athlok are always overlooked because their jobs don’t require as much training as either the military or the priesthood, so even though everyone’s supposed to be valued equally by the Qun they don’t have as much of a voice as the other two…”  
  
“Maybe you should lead with the explanation of Qunari culture next time.”  
  
*  
  
“I’ve got another question for you, Dorian: what’s the most limbs ever removed in one swing?”  
  
“Does it count if the swing raises an undead army to tear your enemies limb to limb? Because then the answer in definitely somewhere over a hundred.”  
  
“No, that’s cheating.”  
  
“If you say so.”  
  
“I say so, and so would the Bull, probably.”  
  
“Ah. Well, do heads count?”  
  
“Heads _absolutely_ count. And he did say that.”  
  
“How about horns?”  
  
“… I don’t know. Adaar?”  
  
“Only if they’re severed from your head. Otherwise that’s just your head.”  
  
“Hm. I assume if the body is bifurcated, you go with the side which has the most limbs?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Four. Under the left arm and down to the pelvis.”  
  
“With your _staff blade_?”  
  
“No, of course not. I picked up a sword from one of the bodies littered around. And before you ask: I’d been playing hide and seek with a cadre of Fog Warrior for three days, I wasn’t sleeping enough for my mana to replenish itself, and my staff had been broken the day before. So, no undead, that time around.”  
  
“Huh. Never managed more than three myself.”  
  
“Well, like most things I did on Seheron, it was a matter of pure luck and I had no idea what I was doing.”  
  
“Is that supposed to be consolation, somehow?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“How?”  
  
“…good question.”

*

“Right, so: armored opossum things with claws. Like, a mandolin? A pandolin?”  
  
“Pangolins. Yeah, those are real.”  
  
“Giant rat-fennecs that punch and kick things and carry babies around in pockets?”  
  
“Kangaroos are also real.”  
  
“Newts, but like, with frilly tube ear horn things sticking out.”  
  
“Axolotls? They’re native to Seheron, but I’ve seen them in zoos.”  
  
“Horny lizards that shoot blood from their eyeballs.”  
  
“Yep. Qunari call them the ‘vint lizards because of the blood, the ‘vints call them Qunari lizards because of the horns.”  
  
“Duck-billed beaver that lays eggs and have poison toes.”  
  
“Ah, the venerable platypus. The first time a ‘vint sent one of those home, the Minrathous Zoological Society thought someone was trying to con them. I read the reports back when I was in training- they were hilarious.”  
  
“Giant angry birds with wings too little to fly running around trying to peck everything to death.”  
  
“You’ve just described about six different species, Sera.”  
  
“That’s shite, Bull. That’s bullshit.”  
  
“No, it’s not.”  
  
“Double bullshit.”  
  
“It’s not even half bullshit.”  
  
“ _No._ ”  
  
“Believe what you want: that doesn’t make it any less true.”  
  
“Pbbbbbt!”  
  
*  
  
“So… want to try Qunari jokes again, Varric?”  
  
“What makes you say that?”  
  
“The way you’re staring at that red lyrium like it’s your crossbow.”  
  
“Well, shit. I didn’t even notice- you know what, tell me some Qun jokes, Tiny, please.”  
  
“Okay well, the first thing you have to understand is that the Qun views world conquest as inevitable. It’s called _ataas shokra_ , the glorious struggle, and once the Qun rules all and there’s no more _basra vashedan_ to clunk things up the world will attain a… state of grace, I guess you’d call it? We called it ‘the way things are to be’ or ‘the way things must be’.”  
  
“Okay Tiny, with you so far.”  
  
“Ready for the joke?”  
  
“Hit me.”  
  
“An old tamassran is instructing her successors in how to explain the Qun to their charges. One of the students raises her hand. ‘Tama, do you think we might one day live in the world as it must be?’ The tamassran was silent for a moment. ‘No. But as for your charges… your poor charges…’”  
  
“That’s the joke?”  
  
“That’s the joke.”  
  
“That wasn’t funny, that was sad!”  
  
“That was plenty funny! You just didn’t get the joke.”  
  
*  
  
“Pawn to C4.”  
  
“Pawn to G6.”  
  
“Knight to C3. Towering your King, I see. Or Ashkaari.”  
  
“And you’re rushing right into the middle. Tamassran to G7.”  
  
“Pawn to D4. Incidentally, why are your pawns still called pawns? Wouldn’t there be a Qunlat term for it?”  
  
“Well, yeah, but it changes depending on who’s playing. Ashkaari towers.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“If you’re playing with the military, they’re called ‘karashok’. If you’re playing in the workers, they’re called ‘athlok’. For the priests, they’re ‘viddathari’. ”  
  
“But your Queen remains an Arishok across all three… castes? Divisions?”  
  
“Division probably fits better. Caste makes it sound like there’s never any crossover between the three. And the Ariqun and Arigena don’t fight. You going to make a move?”  
  
“Give me a moment to consider.”

*

“I’ve noticed you have some of the rebel mages wearing armor now.”  
  
“Do they still count as rebels when they have a full alliance with the Inquisition and a tower for them to study in at Skyhold is already under construction?”  
  
“It will only constrict their ability to cast.”  
  
“The weight takes some getting used to, but it’ll be worth it the first time someone thinks they can sneak up behind them with a dagger and finds they have to saw through leather and chainmail before they can do much damage.”  
  
“That’s what barriers are for, darling.”  
  
“If you’re good at barriers, that works just fine, I’m sure. But there are plenty of people whose talents lay elsewhere.”  
  
“Those people can be protected by those with the talent to do so.”  
  
“So long as those people have the mana to do so, I suppose, but that’s hardly a given.”  
  
“You talk as though you expect them to fight on the frontlines.”  
  
“Do you not?”  
  
“The Knight-Enchanters, certainly. But there’s a reason why mages are used for support, rather than for foot soldiers.”  
  
“Yes, because the mundane outnumber the magi roughly one hundred to one, and you make your mages beg permission before learning battle magic, let alone leaving their Circle to use it… and when they do leave the Circle, the Templars often follow them. So you end up with a handful of people who can scatter their enemies in a panic and set fire to their siege equipment, but who have little real-world experience, heavily armed guards watching their backs and their every move, and no one with their talents to replace them when they fall. None of that applies to the Inquisition.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“We allied with the rebel mages: a group of _hundreds_ of frightened desperate people who, whether they wanted to or not, have taken up arms over the last year, and who now comprise a full third of the Inquisition’s fight force. And they’re going to need to fight like it.”  
  
*  
  
“Hit me, Tiny. If I see one more sand dune I’m going to scream.”  
  
“So under the Qun there are these people called Ashtalan. It’s a role that basically means storyteller. Not like you’re a storyteller- it’s all parables and morals and illustrating virtues in was people can find enjoyable. And there’s this thing we do, where the Ashtalan asks her audience to visualize the world under the Qun and ask her questions if there’s anything we can’t visualize. The Ben-Hassrath monitor these sessions, to keep tabs on anyone who looks like they’re having doubts, and there were always a few plants to ask easy questions to relate how the Qun made life better, but most of the questions are asked in earnest, and some of those questions can get pretty silly. The Ashtalan has to be able to think on her feet, or else she’ll make the Qun look foolish.”  
  
“Okay, I still follow.”  
  
“So there’s this entire subgenre of Qunari jokes surrounding the Ashtalan questions and answer session, where the questions are simple, but the answers are kind of ridiculous.”  
  
“Go for it.”  
  
“Ashtalan was asked: Is it true that when the world is as it is to be that there will be no need for reeducators? And Ashtalan replied: Of course! When things are as they must be, the people will reeducate themselves!”  
  
“Aha!”  
  
“Now, you see, you got it, but you didn’t _get it_ get it. You understood the context, but it wasn’t funny to you.”  
  
“Maybe I just need to hear a few more.”  
  
*  
  
“Emos.”  
  
“What now?”  
  
“There is no way there are emos.”  
  
“Emus?”  
  
“Yeah. But _no_.”  
  
“Emus are as real as you and me, Sera.”  
  
“Giant fire-proof pack hunters with enough smarts to interridate?”  
  
“Interrogate?”  
  
“…sure?”  
  
“No. They’re just big birds.”  
  
“I knew he was making that shite up!”

*

“After time to consider: Mage to F4.”  
  
“Pawn to D5. Speaking of names for the pieces, why are you using the ones in Trade?”  
  
“Would you prefer Orlesian? _Dame á la B3_.”  
  
“Pawn takes C4 and first blood to me. Nah, I just figured you’d use elven names.”  
  
“Queen to C4 and revenge is mine. The elves didn’t have chess. There was a game which is similar, but the board had three levels to it. I don’t wish to confuse the rules.”  
  
“Fair enough. Pawn to C6.”  
  
*  
  
“Hit me, Tiny.”  
  
“Ashtalan was asked: What is chaos? And Ashtalan replied: It is not my role to speak of the affairs of the Antaam.”  
  
“Okay, after Kirkwall, that one _is_ funny to me.”  
  
“ _Excellent._ Ashtalan was asked: Would it be possible to bring the Qun to the Magisters? And Ashtalan replied: Yes, but after they used blood magic on it, the Qun would have to be destroyed.”  
  
“You know what? I’m think I’ll tell that one to Broody next time I hear from him. He’ll appreciate it.”  
  
“Ashtalan was asked: Is it true that to be reeducated is to bring glory to the Qun? The Ashtalan was silent for a moment, before she pointed to the _viddath-bas_ picking garbage up from the streets. And Ashtalan replied: It is. But you don’t have to take my word for it. My peer turned herself in for re-education last year, and she can only say ‘good thing’ now.”  
  
“Do you know that you have the exact same sense of humor as my tama, Bull?”  
  
“Your tama sounds like a remarkable woman, boss.”  
  
“He really isn’t.”  
  
*  
  
“I knew you were full of it.”  
  
“Is that your way of asking for more arrows?”  
  
“I asked the Bull. He told me all about how emus weren’t what you said they were.”  
  
“Does that mean the Exalted Emu War of Interdiction never made it into the Ben-Hassrath reports about Baq-Chisaari?”  
  
“The what of who where now?”  
  
“I definitely would have remembered that if it was in the reports.”  
  
“I’m surprised Krem hasn’t mentioned it, at least. He was there, for every ridiculous, surreal moment.”  
  
“I’m going to be checking that.”  
  
“See that you do.”

*

“Pawn to E4.”  
  
“Nice line in the middle of the board there. Ben-Hassrath to D7.”  
  
“Interesting move. Tower to D1.”  
  
“Ben-Hassrath to B6.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“Need a moment?”  
  
“No. Queen to C5.”  
  
“Bold, leaving your Arishok front and center. Tamassran to G4.”  
  
“Mage to G5.”  
  
“You’re going to regret that. Ben-Hassrath to A4.”  
  
“Queen to A3.”  
  
“Ben-Hassrath takes Ben-Hassrath at C3.”  
  
“Pawn to C3 to take your Ben-Hassrath.”  
  
“Ben-Hassrath to E4.”  
  
“Mages!”  
  
“What about his tamassran?”  
  
“As in Venatori!”  
  
“Aw, shit. It was just getting good!”  
  
*  
  
“So, boss. You call your father ‘tama’.”  
  
“Well, yeah. We’re Vashoth, not human. Roles are important. My father stayed close to home and made sure we were happy and fed and clothes and suchlike, so he’s Tama. My mother is the mage parent: she taught us to read, write, and sign, and also to control our magic, so she’s Salit. My _other_ mother kept the settlement safe, taught us to fight, and put me in touch with the Valo-Kas, so she’s Sataareth, or Sataa.”  
  
“Huh. So, what was that like?”  
  
“Having three parents, or growing up in the Vashoth settlement in general?”  
  
“Both? I know how this shit works in theory, and I have my boys, but you’re the first qunari I’ve met that could say they grew up with a family, which actual siblings and parents and crap.”  
  
“Really? I mean, I’ve heard about your tama from Cole. I thought…”  
  
“I wasn’t allowed to say it. Neither was she. And it wasn’t allowed to be permanent. I grew up, I left, if we met afterwards it was as two adults passing through the same street.”  
  
“I think that might be why they left. My parents, I mean. Tama and Salit met first- they’d been Avaraad and Saarebas, and they were on Seheron when they split, so I don’t know… Sataa ran into them at some point. And all three of them were very determined that we knew we were loved, and that we should love in return. The whole settlement was like that- they named it Kadanshokrakar.”  
  
“Rebel for the heart?”  
  
“Rebel for a place for the heart, was how it was always translated. Though Shokrakar claims it was named for her.”  
  
“Sounds like a nice place.”  
  
“It was. It really was.”  
  
*  
  
“So tell me darling, how are the mages used in the Imperium’s forces?”  
  
“It depends upon the conditions of the battle, and what sort of specializations are available. For example, ice, spirit, and creation magic are good if you’re on the defensive end of a siege: the _saarebas_ normally specialize in fire magic, _gaatlok_ also sets things on fire, and the Qunari don’t fully understand what a force multiplier healing and barriers can be, so they tend to wildly overestimate our numbers when their projectiles don’t hit as often as they should be, and people are able to return to fighting within hours rather than days.”  
  
“That sounds a great dealing like supporting fire.”  
  
“It _is_ supporting fire. Sieges are like storm waters surging against a floodgate. If you aren’t reinforcing the floodgate, you’re going to drown.”  
  
“And if you wish to break your siege?”  
  
“That, Madame de Fer, is when things get complicated.”  
  
*  
  
“Mage to E7.”  
  
“Finally conceded to that, have you? Arishok to B6.”  
  
“Mage to C4.”  
  
“What, no witty remarks? Ben-Hassrath to C3.”  
  
“Mage to C5.”  
  
“…shit.”

*

“Hit me, Tiny.”  
  
“You know what, I think it’s the boss’ turn to tell a Qun joke.”  
  
“What makes you think I know any good Qun jokes?”  
  
“The fact that mine remind you of your tama.”  
  
“…okay, so a Saarebas escapes to the Tevinter Imperium. Naturally, they want to use her for propaganda, so she’s brought before the Senate.”  
  
“Uh, boss? Is this a Qun joke or a ‘vint joke?”  
  
“Shhh, wait for it. One of the magisters peers down at her and says ‘you poor thing, you must have been kept collared away from your magic’, and Saarebas tells him that she couldn’t complain about that, she was allowed to set things on fire pretty often. ‘You must have been kept isolated from all other people’ says another Senator, and the Saarebas tells him that she couldn’t complain about that, her Karantaam was actually pretty close-knit. ‘Then you must have been mistreated by them’ says a third Senator, but the Saarebas says that she couldn’t complain about that either, as her aravaad was always kind to her. ‘Then what are you doing here?’ demands a forth Senator. ‘Ah,’ says the Saarebas, pointing to her mouth. ‘Here I can complain.’”  
  
“That’s not a Qun joke! That a _Vashoth_ joke!”  
  
“You asked for it.”  
  
  
*  
  
“There’s one more question I’ve been told to ask you.”  
  
“Blackwall, did you lose a bet?”  
  
“And while I’ve given my word I would ask, you are not obligated to answer.”  
  
“You’ve lost a bet haven’t you.”  
  
“Worse place you’ve ever been? And again, you don’t have to answer.”  
  
“For someone who’s joined a military order renown throughout Thedas for being full of convicted murderers and using any means necessary to achieve their ends, you’re a bit squeamish, you know that?”  
  
“I prefer my conflicts to be free of killing innocent people, thanks.”  
  
“Blackwall… there’s no such thing.”  
  
“We do alright in the Inquisition.”  
  
“Yes, compared to Seheron and the Orlesian Civil War and the Mage-Templar War certainly we do. I had noticed the complete lack of destroyed orphanages. But you do understand that many of the mundane Venatori we fight are likely slaves, that many of the Red Templars were probably forced to ingest red lyrium without their knowledge or consent, and that many of the bandits that attack us are likely starving, desperate refugees who managed to get their hands on some weaponry, right?”  
  
“Right. But they had the choice to take up arms against the Inquisition. They could have surrendered.”  
  
“They also have no way of knowing if that would work out for them. From their point of view, they’ve been backed into a corner and we’re the ones crowding them there.”  
  
“That’s…”  
  
“The answer to your question is just ‘Seheron’, by the way. I can’t really narrow it down more than that.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
*  
  
“Hit me, Tiny.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
“Oof. What the- with a Qunari joke, asshole.”  
  
“You just walked into it.”  
  
“I didn’t walk into anything! You hit me!”  
  
“And it was _hilarious_.”

*

“We never did finish our conversation, darling.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yes. How would you break a siege? Before, you left off on it’s complicated.”  
  
“It _is_ complicated. Sieges generally have three stages. There’s the interdiction stage, when supply lines and access to reinforcements are being cut off, but there’s no pitched battle ongoing. You have a wider range of options on that stage than on the others: you can try and force a pitched battle elsewhere, you can engage in counter-guerilla fighting, you can fortify your position, or you can retreat. Stage two is trickier: if you’ve managed things well enough, you’ve got a good head of supplies, a way of replenishing a few of them, and plenty of fortifications for your would-be besiegers to exhaust themselves against: trenches, minefields, mobile platforms, a veritable no-man’s land. When done well, the fighting there can stretch on for several months, if not break the siege entirely. When done poorly, things progress quickly to stage three, which is what most people picture when they think of sieges. You’re behind a wall- or, ideally, several walls- and they’re trying to knock them down: no incoming supplies, and no retreat.”  
  
“No way of breaking out.”  
  
“I didn’t say that, my dear. The best case scenario is that you’re able to get a message to forces elsewhere, and they start attacking the flank of the besieging army. Knowing that assistance is forthcoming keeps moral from dipping too low, and once the enemy is fighting on two fronts your odds of success are pretty high.”  
  
“And if you have no forces elsewhere?”  
  
“Then you have to get creative. The first step is either to try and retake some of no-man’s land, or open up an escape route. In either case, you need to break the enemy’s ranks- get their siege weaponry out of range of your defenses and force their soldiers to retreat. Knight-Enchanters are excellent shock troops, but you have to be careful about deploying them. If the Qunari learn to recognize them on sight, then they’ll suddenly find themselves the focus of more fire than they can handle. Necromancy is actually better at creating mass chaos, as is nature magic, if there are still trees around.”  
  
“Trees?”  
  
“Do they tell stories about Dalish Keepers enchanting trees to start walking around and killing humans in Orlais? I couldn’t say whether the Dalish actually do it, of course, but as it happens that is something that can be done.”  
  
“I see. Please, continue.”  
  
“Horror spells and sylvans throwing people around can scatter a force pretty quickly, to say nothing of the fact that everyone is stepping over their own dead at that point- given a few lyrium potions I can raise up an entire battalion. Deploy a Knight-Enchanter with a group of volunteer bodyguards into the breach to cut a swath, hopefully establishing a kind of bridgehead to send more troops in afterwards. If things go well, you’ll have made a dent. From there you just continue making dents until you’ve broken through.”  
  
*  
  
“F-Tower to E8.”  
  
“King to F1.”  
  
“Tamassran to E6.”  
  
“Mage takes Arishok at B6.”  
  
“I knew you couldn’t resist pulling a Kirkwall.”  
  
“Beg pardon?”  
  
“Tamassran takes Mage at C4.”  
  
*  
  
“Did you really, like, shoot yourself in the foot trying to hunt those giant death birds?”  
  
“No, that was Vexillator Triskelion. I was but a lowly Tessarius at the time.”  
  
“Tessasaurus wha-?”  
  
“I believe Krem helpfully translated ‘Tessarius Pavus’ as ‘Lieutenant Peacock’ when he translated that song into trade. He also put down ‘Vexillator Triskelion’ as ‘Captain Threesome’, which Triskelion would have appreciated, I’m sure.”  
  
“Pfft! Is that a real song, though?”  
  
“As opposed to a fake song?”  
  
“Like, does your fancy-pants evil mage army sing that while they’re marching?”  
  
“Whilst marching, no. Whilst drinking, yes, often.”

*

“So, I’ve got a question for you, Tiny.”  
  
“Hit me… but not literally.”  
  
“Spoilsport. Anyway, I was thinking… most of those Qun jokes you’ve been telling me seem pretty critical of the Qun. Do people never get in trouble for telling them?”  
  
“Eh, you have to be careful about it- you don’t tell them out on the street to just anyone, but with friends behind closed doors… when I was Ben-Hassrath, we were always told to just let it happen. It’s a pressure valve. People letting off steam by laughing instead of with violence is a good thing.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“Not that there was never any risk, of course. There’s this one joke that goes like this: a vidathiss sits down next to a tallis over lunch, chuckling and shaking his head. Tallis asks him what’s so funny. ‘I just heard the funniest joke!’ Vidathiss tells her. Tallis asks him to repeat it, and Vidathiss replies ‘I can’t. But if can get to the prisoner in Cell 101 before they qamek him, I’m sure he’ll be happy to repeat it.’”  
  
*  
  
“Of course, there’s no accounting for luck.”  
  
"Are you speaking to me, dear?”  
  
“Naturally, Madame de Fer. With regards to our conversation about sieges, I was saying that there’s no accounting for luck.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Once we were trapped in this tiny little fortress called Sitaar-vas: cliffs behind us on three sides, and one narrow strip of land we couldn’t really dig into because it was mostly drakestone deposits in front.”  
  
“Did luck make the Qunari realize that Sitaar-vas wasn’t worth the effort of killing you to have?”  
  
“Hardly. Sitaar-vas was also the only remaining lighthouse on a particularly tricky stretch of coastline at the time, and I’m fairly certain that a point of Qunari foreign policy is that I am always worth the effort of killing.”  
  
“It’s nice to hear someone appreciated you for your work.”  
  
“Indeed. Anyway, our stroke of luck is that we had an alchemist who knew how to refine sela petrea from the latrines.”  
  
“Sela… oh my. I take it Sitaar-vas is no longer standing?”  
  
“It is not, but the Qunari were so convinced that we must have stolen their recipe for gaatlok that they withdrew to clean house for the rest of the season, so I’d consider that a win.”  
  
*  
  
“So, is that your song then?”  
  
“No, I wrote an overly-somber after action report that the Praetorix had to work very hard not to laugh at. ‘The Exalted Emu March’ was written by one of the centurions, Atticus Bessarion, and I’ve never quite forgiven him for it.”  
  
“Like Maryden’s song about me?”  
  
“I suppose so, yes.”  
  
*  
  
“King to G1.”  
  
“Ben-Hassrath to E2.”  
  
“King to F1.”  
  
“Ben-Hassrath takes Pawn at D4.”  
  
“King to G1.”  
  
“Ben-Hassrath to E2.”  
  
“King to F1.”  
  
“Are you guys just moving your pieces between two spots on the board?”  
  
“Ben-Hassrath to C3, and no riding doubles on chess, boss.”  
  
“Never mind then.”  
  
*  
  
“Can I ask you something?”  
  
“There’s considerable evidence to suggest so.”  
  
“How do you live with it?”  
  
“With it what?”  
  
“Killing innocent people. Civilian casualties. Dead kids.”  
  
“Well, what’s my other option, throwing myself on my staff blade?”  
  
“Drinks? Opium? Running away?”  
  
“I don’t know what they teach Wardens about geography, but I’ll have you know that we are literally on the other end of the continent from Seheron, Blackwall.”  
  
“But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”  
  
“I suppose not. It’s- hmm. Can I get back to you about that?”  
  
“Of course. Take your time.”

*

“Something’s been bothering me.”  
  
“Just the one thing?”  
  
“That Pray-tricks woman was in charge of Seheron before she came over all demony, and then you were in charge.”  
  
“That’s true in a broad strokes fashion, I suppose.”  
  
“Then why aren’t you a Pray-tricks, instead of a Leggy-tarts?”  
  
“Praetorix is a civilian title- she was essentially the- mayor, let’s say, of Seheron before the Qunari managed to retake the southern third of the island, and afterwards she ended up in charge largely by default. She was absorbed into the military, but she kept her title because of some kind of political statement about our inevitable victory and continued sovereignty over the place. After she ‘came over all demony’ the Magisterium decided that particular fig leaf was no longer necessary, so I was confirmed as Legatus, while the Praetor’s seat remains empty until such time as we can reestablish control of Seheron City.”  
  
“Sounds like a load of horse shite to me.”  
  
"Oh, it very much is.”  
  
*  
  
“And what of blood magic?”  
  
“Is there any particular context you’d like to discuss it in, or would you simply like me to reaffirm that I don’t use it?”  
  
“You may reaffirm, my dear, but that does not mean I’ll not believe you.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I’ve seen the power some of these Venatori find in blood. I’m having a hard time picturing the Imperium’s Army neglecting to make use of it, to say nothing of the fact that I’ve never seen you without that dagger.”  
  
“Which, naturally, cannot possibly be used against an enemy who sees it, thinks I’m going to slice open my own palm and therefore doesn’t guard against me stabbing them in the eye.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“I do not use blood magic, Madame de Fer.”  
  
*  
  
“King to G1.”  
  
“A-Pawn takes Mage at B6.”  
  
“Queen to B4.”  
  
“Aw, now you’re just teasing me. Rook to A4.”  
  
“And Queen to B6.”  
  
“Ben-Hassrath to D1. You’ve left your Queen high and dry.”  
  
“Pawn to H3.”  
  
“That Tower’s not going to save you. Tower takes Pawn at A2.”  
  
“You’re awfully smug for someone who lost their Arishok so long ago.”  
  
“As Cabot is fond of saying: The Arishok is gone, but in the shadows, the Arishok.”  
  
“Hmph.”  
  
*  
  
“ _There’s no such thing as honorable death, just old lies and dead friends._ ”  
  
“Cole? I’m still working that one out.”  
  
“Oh. Sorry.”  
  
*  
  
“So what was your title?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I was talking to Dorian last time I was out, and he said a bunch of shite about ranks, so I was wondering. The Qunari have like, titles and ranks instead of names, yeah? You must have had one, before you left.”  
  
“Uh, well. I escaped from a work gang after being reeducated, so that would be ‘viddath-hol’, I guess.”  
  
“Pfft, I meant when you were a Ben-Hasser-thingy, not when you’d been schooled by them.”  
  
“One is always schooled by the Ben-Hassrath, _basra_.”  
  
“Quit taking the piss.”  
  
“I was Hissrad. It means “Keeper of Illusions”, or, more to the point, liar.”  
  
“Your title was ‘liar’?”  
  
“Yep. I made it look like everything was going fine, there were no problems, and only a crazy person would truly doubt the Qun.”  
  
“Were you, like, a bard or something?”  
  
“Or something. I’d patrol around with the other guys in my cadre, I’d smile and laugh and tell a few borderline-scandalous jokes. People liked me. They trusted me. They’d tell me things they wouldn’t tell anyone else, say and do things in front of me they wouldn’t have dared do in front of most people. And I’d let them have the illusion that everything was alright, and I’d watch and I’d remember, and I’d report back, and if things looked like they might get out of hand, someone else would swoop in and take care of it.”  
  
“So they never knew it was you snitching on them?”  
  
“Sometimes the people who were left behind instead of being sent to reeducation would end up crying on my shoulder about it. It was- it got hard, once I stopped believing.”  
  
“It was only hard _then_?”  
  
“It’s one thing to be able to turn on people for their own good and for the greater good, if you think they’ll be better off for it. It’s like making a sick friend see the healer before he spreads the plague to an entire village. But once I’d gotten rid of that illusion…”  
  
“Pretty shit at your role, then, weren’t you?”  
  
“Fuck yeah I was! The viddathiss didn’t go after me because they were jealous of my sweet rack.”

*

“King to H2.”  
  
“You just do not like your side of the board, do you? Ben-Hassrath takes Pawn at F2.”  
  
“Whereas you’re clinging to your end like a frightened child to their mother’s skirts. Tower to E1.”  
  
“Are you sure you’re visualizing the board correctly? Tower takes Tower at E1.”  
  
“Yes. Queen to D8.”  
  
“Man, no wonder you wanted white. Tamassran to F8.”  
  
“I wanted white because I wanted to start a game, and white goes first. Knight takes Tower at E1.”  
  
“Tamassran to D5.”  
  
“Planning on having your Tamassran swoop to your Ashkaari’s defense? That doesn’t seem in keeping with the Qun’s philosophy. Knight to F3.”  
  
“Okay, first of all, you don’t know shit about the Qun. Second of all, I’m Tal-Va-Fucking-Shoth. Ben-Hassrath to E4.”  
  
“Queen to B5.”  
  
“…are you hoping that we’ll be surprised by bears again and I’ll make a mistake?”  
  
“I would have to be in much more dire straits before I wished for more bears.”  
  
*  
  
“You know what I could use right now, Tiny?”  
  
“A stiff drink and some shade?”  
  
“Yes. But I’ll settle for another one of those Qun jokes of yours.”  
  
“Hm, let me think..”  
  
“If we’re telling Qun jokes again, I’ve got a good one.”  
  
“You …do?”  
  
“A ‘vint telling Qun jokes?”  
  
“Well, it’s more of a Seheron joke, I suppose.”  
  
“Okay, this I’ve got to hear.”  
  
“The Fog Warriors, the Siccari, and the Ben-Hassrath all gather together, and decide to settle the matter of who should have control over Seheron with a contest: whoever can catch a rabbit released into the Qetaarnia Forest the quickest will win. The Siccari go first: their rabbit is released, and after an hour they go after it, bristling with slaves and lyrium. A great deal of screaming later, the forest is on fire, all the slaves have been sacrificed and there are abominations everywhere. It is decided that the rabbit was a trick, and never existed. The Siccari declare the contest a farce and return home to receive accolades for their bravery until the next invasion season. The Fog Warriors go next, disappearing after their rabbit after an hour with nary a sound. They are never seen or heard from again: it is presumed that the rabbit joined their numbers. Finally, the Ben-Hassrath have their turn. They wait their hour, go after the rabbit, and emerge some days later with a bear, dosed to the gills with qamek and chewing placidly on a carrot, and declare themselves the victor.”  
  
“You two are something else entirely, you know that?”  
  
*  
  
“You know that’s tits down here, right?”  
  
“Uh, what?”  
  
“Having a sweet rack means you’ve got great tits. For most people. You know, with tits and no horns.”  
  
“…that explains _so much_.”  
  
*  
  
“So, I think I’ve got an answer for you, Blackwall.”  
  
“…well?”  
  
“There isn’t any kind of peace to be made with it, I don’t think. You just sort of… carry the bodies with you. Keep them as a reminder that you have to do better, of the consequences of failure, and just keep moving. The truth of the matter is, I probably would self-destruct over it, but there were- are- people who depend upon me, and, for their sake, I don’t have the luxury of being anything less than dependable.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s… what I thought.”  
  
*  
  
“Pawn to B5.”  
  
“Pawn to H4.”  
  
“Pawn to H5.”  
  
“Knight to E5.”  
  
“Ashkaari to G7.”  
  
“King to G1.”  
  
“Tamassran to G5 and check.”  
  
“King to F1.”  
  
“Ben-Hassrath to G3, and check again.”  
  
“King to E1.”  
  
“Tamassran to B4, and check. You can run but you can’t hide.”  
  
“Hmmph. King to D1.”  
  
“Tamassran to D3… and check.”  
  
“King to C1.”  
  
“Ben-Hassrath to E2, and you’re still in check.”  
  
“…King to B1.”  
  
“Ben-Hassrath to C3, and you’re checked all over the place.”  
  
“King to C1.”  
  
“Tower to C2 for check and mate.”  
  
“ _Fenedhis lasa._ ”  
  
“Good game to you too, Solas.”

*

“Is there some trouble in Ghislain that has yet to reach the Inquisition’s ears?”  
  
“Beg pardon?”  
  
“You’ve been asking after siege tactics and blood magic. I presumed that there was trouble on your patron’s holdings, but can’t find any reports from Ghislain that are more worrisome than is usual for most places in Orlais. Is there something we should know?”  
  
“There’s something you’ve overlooked. Do you honestly think we’ll defeat Erimond and his puppets without a siege?”  
  
“No? But I don’t see how anything I’ve told you will be of much use.”  
  
“Don’t you? Outside of the Imperium, the Wardens must be the force with the most use for mages as frontline fighters.”  
  
“Save for the Inquisition, you mean.”  
  
“Naturally.”  
  
“Well, I can see where you’re coming from, but I’m afraid you’ve overlooked something.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“We’re Erimond’s enemy, not the Warden’s. Oh, they’ll fight us, but we’re a distraction from their real enemy. All that they do- the blood magic sacrifices, the demon summoning, _everything_ \- they do to end the Blights. Erimond’s control over them extends only so far as they are convinced that he holds the key to killing every archdemon before they can be corrupted.”  
  
“That and his ability to thrall them with blood magic.”  
  
“Oh, that little demonstration of his rattled you, didn’t it?”  
  
“No. I simply know better than the try and reason with thralls.”  
  
“And I know better than to think that he’s powerful enough to thrall all the Wardens. They are a group of over a thousand fighting-fit, willful men and women whose sole purpose is to destroy darkspawn, and that is the key to Erimond’s control over them. We need to focus on him.”  
  
“He’s not an army, my dear.”  
  
“No, but the army we’ll be facing will be a fractured one. The Wardens think they’re fighting a war on two fronts: us, and the darkspawn… and we’re the lesser threat. Their use of blood magic sacrifices will cause dissention in the ranks, as well as abominations that will attack indiscriminately, and if there’s any chance that the Wardens can be persuaded of the truth… they’ll turn on Erimond, and he’ll be trapped.”  
  
“You don’t sound as though you think that’s a good thing.”  
  
“It… depends. If he has an escape route all planned out, then he’ll disappear, and I doubt we’ll hear from him again anytime soon. If not… well. I doubt he’ll go down easy, as far as he’s concerned, there’s no such thing as collateral damage.”

* * *

Adaar and Hawke were riding for Skyhold in the morning with Vivienne, Varric, and Cassandra. Dorian and the Bull were staying behind, making it look like they were still preoccupied with the Venatori and what Dorian had been calling their ‘offensively trite and foolish attempts at grasping for power’ up until they noticed that time magic was involved. Then he’d gotten pretty grim.  
  
Anyway, those assholes were mostly dead by now, so he and Dorian would just be running around rounding up loose darkspawn and those phoenix things, huddling around campfires on frigid nights and shit. Just the two of them, alone together.   
  
The boss meant well, he supposed. It was just…seeing as he wasn’t going back to take care of it himself, he had to get Varric to agree to relay his list of kitten-sitting relating concerns to his boys, and the dwarf found the idea that he’d been looking after kittens to be way too funny- something about Daisy going to be all upset about missing out on the sight.  
  
Once Varric had it all down, the Bull went back to the room he’d claimed in the Inquisition’s newest Keep. He took the long route, the one that took him past Dorian’s door.   
  
It was open. Hawke was inside, sniffling slightly, as Dorian offered her a glass of some kind of whiskey.   
  
“He would have loved to meet you," she was saying. "He- he’d had this fascination with Tevinter, a land of free mages, where he wouldn’t be locked up if he healed some poor crippled child out in public. He didn’t like slavery, he didn’t like blood magic, but he built up this ideal of- of not having to hide, and Tevinter seemed like a good place for it.”  
  
“I know,” Dorian said. “Quite a lot of mages from the Gallows ended up under my command. He was their hero, for the most part.”  
  
Hawke hiccuped. “Maker, he would have loved to hear that. And if Bethany had lived, if she’d made it to Kirkwall and then been caught, would she have- oh, _Maker_ , I can’t fall apart like this, we’re about to go to war.” She knocked back her drink.   
  
Dorian poured her another.   
  
“Do you think I did the right thing? I’ve heard- the mages in the Inquisition talk about you all the time you know, and I heard from somewhere that you- I know it’s not the same thing, what happened with you and Berenice, but I know Anders wouldn’t have blown up the Chantry. I know it wasn’t him. He would have taken out Meredith’s office, sure, but a Chantry… but what if I’m wrong? What if I’m wrong and he’s still dead, and I did that? What do you think?”  
  
“I think that sometimes you don’t get a right thing to do,” Dorian told her. “You just make a choice, and live with the consequences.”  
  
“That’s not an answer,” Hawke pointed out.   
  
“No. I don’t have an answer,” Dorian sighed. “You’re right, it’s different. I know for a fact that it was a pride abomination that I killed. But I still go over it, those last few weeks. She must have changed at some point. There must have been some kind of breaking point when Praetorix Berenice Amiori just stopped and a demon started walking around in her skin, something I dismissed as the stress of our impending doom, or just missed entirely. I still can’t pin it down.”  
  
“He knew there was something wrong. Justice stopped letting him drink, stopped letting him go to Diamondback nights, tried to get him to break up with me. He tried to give away his pillow. It was the one thing he had left from the Anderfels, from before the Templars took him, and he tried to give it away. I should have known.”  
  
“So should I,” Dorian said.   
  
The Bull quietly backed away, and left them to it.

* * *

After a couple of weeks of taunting the Venatori and some truly awkward nights spent huddling around a campfire, the boss returned along with what looked like most of the Inquisition. He, Cassandra, and Solas hung back with the boss until the walls had been breached. Dorian joined up with Cullen to help lay siege to the place. He caught sight of his boys as they marched past, and heard a rousing chorus of their company song as they went forward.   
  
He knew it was a sound tactical decision to make. But he didn’t like hanging back while his boys went into danger, and he really didn’t like doing it while Dorian was also going to be right on the frontlines. He knew, Dorian had a vast amount of experience with sieges, his boys were a tough bunch of mercenaries, and they needed to be fresh and sharp if they wanted to get to Erimond once the Warden’s defenses were weakened enough for them to get inside. He knew all of that. It still didn’t help.   
  
He and Cassandra sparred. Nothing to strenuous, nothing too taxing, nothing that would exhaust them or leave them with any kind of injury, just enough to help refocus that instinct to head off towards Adamant, the plume of smoke rising from it like a beacon, beckoning him.   
  
After three very long days, a runner came to Griffon’s Keep with a message: the walls were about to come down. And, finally, off they went.   
  
He saw Krem when they checked in.   
  
“How are we doing, Krem?” he asked.   
  
“We’ve lost Jelly, the Gana, and Flamer. Phoenix looks like she might lose the arm, and Tom-Tom took a blow to the head yesterday and hasn’t woken up,” Krem reported grimly. “He’s barely breathing. The healers don’t think he’ll last.”  
  
The Bull nodded. It was better than he’d hoped, but shit if it didn’t still sting.   
  
There was an explosion not nearly distant enough for his tastes, and Krem added “Rocky’s having the time of his life, though.”  
  
The Bull snorted. “Somebody should.”  
  
He saw Dorian too. He looked… different. It wasn’t even the superficial-yet-telling differences like the Warden-style dagger at his hip or the blood on his robes that was at least a day old. The way he held himself was different, the way he moved was different, the way he looked over at the Bull and then nodded curtly before being swept away at the head of a cadre of mages was different.   
  
He didn’t like it. It worried him, but much like Phoenix’s arm and Tom-Tom’s head, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.   
  
The walls were down. It was time to find Erimond, and put an end to all of this.

* * *

Finding Erimond turned out to be easier than they were expecting it to be. Solas and the boss’s lightning could take out people from afar, and when they got in close, he, Cassandra, and the boss’ ghost sword could take care of it. The Wardens were, as predicted, disorganized, more focused on trying to take out the Blight than bothering with the Inquisition, and suffering from dissention in the ranks. And once their leader realized that Erimond had taken her people for a ride, she pretty much beat his ass into the dirt before they could even climb that last flight of stairs.   
  
And then the archdemon showed up, and things went to shit.   
  
That could be the Inquisition motto: bringing together disparate people for a common good, and then an archdemon will show up and things will go to shit.  
  
“So this is the Fade?” the Bull asked, looking around. You were supposed to visit the Fade in your dreams, right? But this didn’t look like anything he had ever dreamt of before.   
  
Maybe the Qun had been right and the Qunari really didn’t dream like other races did.   
  
“Yes,” Solas said, sounding almost hungry. “Look! The Black City. It’s almost close enough to touch.”  
  
“This is crap,” the Bull said, turning to Cassandra, who grunted in agreement.   
  
“In the real world,” Stroud said. “The Rift Erimond was using was nearby, in the main hall. Can we get out the same way?”  
  
“It beats standing around here,” Adaar said. He pointed towards where there was a swirling green vortex, which didn’t look unlike the Breach. “That way. Let’s go.”  
  
“This is fascinating,” Solas said. “This is not the area I would have chosen, of course, but to physically walk within the Fade…” He sighed happily.   
  
The Bull grumbled under his breath.   
  
“You’re the expert here, Solas,” Adaar reminded him. “Anything helpful?”  
  
“The Fade is shaped by intent and emotion. Remain focused, and it will guide you where you want to go.”  
  
“So, if I focused on being back in the tavern surrounded by my boys and laughing this whole thing off?” the Bull asked.   
  
“You would likely end up being ensorcelled by a desire demon,” Solas informed him.   
  
“Well. Fuck that,” the Bull said. “Everyone, if I get possessed, feint on my blind side, then go low. Cullen says I leave myself open.”  
  
“The demon which controls this area is extremely powerful. Some variety of fear, I would guess,” Solas continued, as though the Bull had never spoken. “I suggest that you be wary of its manipulations, and prepare for what is certain to be a fascinating experience.”  
  
“A fascinating experience?” the Bull demanded. “We’re in the ass end of demon town!”  
  
“As I understand it, you have never had any qualms about the ass end of anything before,” Solas retorted.   
  
“I don’t go near any demonic asses,” he protested.  
  
“Gentlemen,” Hawke interrupted, a little too sweetly. “Perhaps we should move on?”  
  
“Imagine it, to walk in the Fade and survive,” Cassandra said.   
  
“That’s the spirit,” Adaar chirped.   
  
“We haven’t survived yet,” the Bull pointed out.   
  
“That’s not the spirit,” Adaar said, in exactly the same tone of voice.   
  
They moved on.

* * *

The Divine was in the Fade. That was a surprise. So were the boss’ memories of the Conclave explosion that had started this shit-show. So were a fuckton of demons, but he kind of expected that by now, and it was a day ending in 'y'.  
  
Demons, from what he could tell, were pretty shitty to begin with, but the ones that gathered around this Nightmare crap were their own special kind of shit.   
  
They took the form of his Chargers at first: Dalish, blank-faced and dead-eyed above her stitched-closed mouth, the other either decked out in vitaar and spitting fury, or else charging at him with shovels and pick-axes, the use of qamek clear in their jerky, lurching movements. Then they branched out, and he had to deal with a furious Arvaarad-Cassandra leading the boss around on a leash, tightly bound with his horns snapped off near his skull. And a placid Vivienne allowing herself to be tugged wherever Blackwall lead her.   
  
And Dorian, looking broken down and defeated, his face unkempt, his eyes screaming.   
  
The boss saw spiders, apparently. Lucky him.  
  
And of course the Nightmare itself was no prize.   
  
“Ah, Ashkaari,” it purred. The fucker actually purred. “You’ll make a lovely host for one of my minions. Or maybe I’ll ride your body myself.”  
  
“Well,” Hawke said with forced cheer. “I guess everyone really does want to ride the Bull.”  
  
“Sorry, but you’re not my type,” the Bull said.   
  
The Nightmare laughed, and he could feel it in his horns. “No, of course not. Your type looks at you and sees a _thing_ , a mindless creature of destruction, an enemy to be killed before it kills him.”  
  
The Bull couldn’t think of anything smart to say to that. So the Nightmare left him alone and started taunting Solas in elven.   
  
Eventually, after yet more demon crap, they came across a graveyard: their graveyard. At first the Bull thought it was just to represent death, to make them feel like they were going to die here, and then he got a better look at the tombstones. Sera’s had her name on it, and then it said ‘nothingness’. Cassandra’s had ‘helplessness’ squished on the bottom of her many names. His said ‘loss’. And Dorian’s…   
  
Huh. That was certainly something.   
  
“And we’re moving _away_ from the creepy graveyard,” Hawke said loudly. “Come on, let’s finish this.”

* * *

For a long moment, he was sure he was going to have to run straight back into the Fade after the boss. Solas knew too much about the Veil to risk like that, and the boss would never forgive either of them if they let her run back in after him. Then Hawke fell out the rift, swiftly followed by Adaar.   
  
The Rift closed. Stroud had not come out.   
  
“Is Stroud..?” Cassandra asked.   
  
Adaar shook his head. “He’s not.”  
  
“So, did anyone else notice how there’s no one around?” Hawke asked.  
The main hall was nearly silent. They could hear some noises coming from the direction of hole in the outer wall, muffled by stone and distance, but there was no one around.   
  
“There aren’t even bodies,” Hawke continued. “I guess one of the Wardens must be a necromancer.”  
  
There was no way she missed the sudden tension that every member of the Inquisition suddenly carried on them, but she didn’t comment on it.   
  
“Well, let’s see what went wrong, shall we?” Adaar asked.   
  
Cassandra made one of her disgusted noises, and they all followed after him.   
  
The Bull wasn’t surprised to find all the bodies that were missing from the main hall piled upon one another to the side of the inner courtyard. He also wasn’t surprised to see Dorian, encircled by Wardens and Inquisition agents alike.  
  
Erimond was a shock, though. Shouldn’t that guy have been crushed under the rubble when the rest of them fell through the Fade?  
  
He wasn’t crushed. Yet. Dorian might do that to him soon, from the looks of things. Erimond looked like death warmed over, drained of mana if the way he wasn’t casting was any indication. He stumbled over his own feet as Dorian threw a fireball just to his left. Dorian waited until he’d gotten back up before he used another blast of magic to knock him down again.   
  
He was toying with him, the Bull realized with a sick pit in his stomach. He was drawing things out, like a cat with a mouse.   
  
Erimond was enveloped in a purple haze- a horror spell- and he let out of truly pathetic whimper. Dorian advanced on him, his face a cold, merciless mask.   
  
_So this is the Legatus,_ the Bull thought, and for the first time since before the destruction of Haven, he found himself running through ever piece of hearsay he’d ever heard about the guy, and found he could believe Dorian capable of it.  
  
“It’s the Inquisitor!”  
  
He wasn’t sure who first let out the cry, only that it was taken up the crowd, who parted to let them through to where Dorian was standing over Erimond, the blade of his staff resting on his throat. His eyes flicked over to Adaar, and then came to rest on the Bull.   
  
“Dorian,” Adaar said, slightly strained. “It’s okay. You can stop now.”  
  
Dorian continued to stare for a moment, before he nodded curtly, and slung his staff over his back.   
  
“I suppose it’s your lucky day after all,” he remarked to Erimond, who was still whimpering on the ground. And then he turned sharply on his heel and left the inner courtyard, bypassing the large hole in the outermost wall in favor of the side door.   
  
“Chief!”  
  
“Krem!” the Bull shouted, turning around and pulling his lieutenant in for a hug.   
  
“Ugh, Chief,” Krem complained. “We’ve had no further casualties, let’s not mess that up.”  
  
He’d been talking about the hug when he started, but when the Bull was able to let him go, he looked towards the door Dorian had taken.   
The Bull looked to Adaar. Adaar nodded back.   
  
“Go after him, Chief,” Krem said quietly. “When you and the Inquisitor disappeared through that rift…”  
  
The Bull went after him.

* * *

Dorian hadn’t gone very far. He was leaning against the wall not ten feet away from the door, cleaning his staff blade.   
  
“How’re you doing, big guy?” the Bull asked.   
  
He hadn’t been expecting an honest answer, but Dorian snorted and said “Bloody awful,” anyway.   
  
“Yeah, I can see that,” the Bull said, taking in his robes, which were showing more blood than fabric. Then he frowned. “Some of that’s yours.”  
  
“I’d be more surprised if it wasn’t, at this point.”  
  
“But you’re still bleeding.”  
  
Dorian looked over to him, and noticed that he was pointing to his ear. He pressed a fingertip to the entrance to his ear canal, and it came away stained a bright arterial red. Dorian frowned at it for a moment, before he came to some kind of decision.  
  
“Ah,” Dorian said with a nod, tucking his oil and cloth back in his robes. “That’s never a good sign.”  
  
He slung his staff over his back again, and made it four steps in the direction of the Inquisition encampment before his knees buckled and he collapsed in a dead faint.   
  
The Bull managed to catch him before he could hit his head on the way down, and carried him the rest of the way there.   
  
He was still waiting by Dorian’s bedside (and within earshot of Phoenix and Tom-Tom) when Madame de Fer came to check on them.   
  
“Well, you did warn me to be careful with him,” the Bull said.   
  
“Yes,” Vivienne replied. “I did.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: I am the sort of person who owns multiple anthologies of Soviet jokes, to say nothing of the number of books I have about the Soviet Union in general. A lot of the Qun-related stuff in this chapter comes from there: Dorian's cannibalism story is one a survivor of the Siege of Leningrad told, venak-taar is even based off the Soviet shut-your-politic-dissidents-up psychology diagnosis of [sluggish schizophrenia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sluggish_schizophrenia). 
> 
> There is, in fact, a [Fabian strategy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fabian_strategy)
> 
> The game Solas and the Bull play is [The Game of the Century](https://gameknot.com/annotation.pl/bobby-fischers-game-of-the-century?gm=256).
> 
> [The Great Emu War](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emu_War) was one of the sillier things to happen in real life to real people.
> 
> All of the creatures Dorian told Sera about are real. Nature is terrifying and trippy. 
> 
> I tried to read up on siege warfare so that I wouldn't sound like I was 310% talking out of my ass. I was aiming more for 200% ass-talk.


End file.
